


Cartography

by lilith_morgana



Series: Sense and accountability [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 178,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blight is over; Ferelden's two Wardens survived. Now they must forge new lives in a land torn by war, restore what was lost and investigate new threats rising, both in Ferelden and abroad. Future Elissa/Loghain. Sequel to "In All These Wasteful Hours</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those who flocked to war

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to "In All These Wasteful Hours" and I strongly suggest that you read it before you start with this. Unless, of course, you have no problems whatsoever with Loghain and the Warden suddenly being on semi-friendly terms. :)

**CARTOGRAPHY**

**-PART ONE-**

_All through Greece for those who flocked to war_

_they are holding back the anguish now,_

_you can feel it rising now in every house;_

_I tell you there is much to tear the heart_

( _Agamemnon_ – Aeschylus)

* * *

The word on the street is that the war is over.

The word on the street is that because the hordes are no longer marching towards Denerim or the larger villages, because their leader lies hopelessly defeated and their purpose is seemingly lost, the war is no more. It's a simple mistake to make. The ashes behind them have buried their footsteps and the chaos is gradually replaced by growth; the beggars pitching camp in the burnt-out houses have been properly deported so the nobility can return and in the marketplace the luckiest merchants are setting up shop.

Loghain knows all there is to know about war and _this_ , he thinks as he walks through Denerim, this isn't peace. It's a convenient pause from battle, scarcely more than that. And the future, wherever they will spend it, whatever they will be doing, is going to be devoted to further restoring what has been lost. Once the nobility is satisfied there's the matter of the commoners. Every burnt down farm, each son and daughter who died, every source of income gone to waste will have consequences.

This time, though, he will not be there to deal with what the king couldn't. He will not carry out the unpleasant orders, those that were half-spoken in the dusk of Maric's throne room when everyone had been sent away; he will not again learn when to forestall and when to allow the King to pronounce the words himself and he will not sit with the fate of Ferelden spread out in his hands at night, frowning over economical decisions or lack of military strategy. Back then he was a farmer's son who rose to kingmaker – a curious fact in a long line of blood and proud names – and the voice behind every brutal reform they made, behind every downright cruel thing they had to do. To Ferelden, _for_ Ferelden.

What he is now remains to be seen.

He has taken up his quarters in the only reopened inn within the city gates. On the second floor, in a small chamber with an even smaller drawing-room, he has resided since the royal guards escorted him out of the teyrn of Gwaren's estate two days ago and it's as much home as anything else in this bloody city. With the Warden and her companions gone to reside with the future teyrn of Highever, Loghain is left alone. He is expected to care for himself and disturb no one.

It calls for a life resembling the one they've led on the roads of Ferelden, and it's nothing like the past thirty years where a task as simple as shaving required the assistance of terrified little boys running around his bedchamber, bowing so deeply their heads almost touched the floor – _yes_ , _your_ _Grace; right away, your Grace._ That damned _title_ , too, like hearing an Orlesian curse every morning.

Much to his wife's and later his daughter's dismay, he has never liked having servants for his own personal daily routines - it felt too intimate when he first experienced it and that feeling never truly faded.

Yet the thought that he, after thirty years, will never again live like that is odd, too.

Because Maker knew he had practised hard in those years. It is something he seldom admits to himself even now, but he had. He learned that form of life like one learns a language beside the mother tongue, painstakingly and thoroughly and with the irritating knowledge that every small fault, each flaw, will be visible for all to see. In truth, he didn't master it until he married. Celia possessed patience and grace for them both, transforming herself into a proper lady within months of their marriage. She had domestic interests and the intelligence to put them to good use, always in tune with which servant would be best at which precise occupation, something that turned their home into a estate anybody would have been proud of.

Without her, Loghain knows, he wouldn't have had time to keep Gwaren's nobility in one piece. She saw to their successful interaction with the people there, showing unfaltering loyalty to both him and the throne, and had an untiring capacity for always smiling and offering her ear. Only Celia could listen to Lord Anshelm's dire tales of rotting fishing boats – something that he, for the period of ten years, insisted to have compensation for, even though Loghain refused every time – and still wear an expression of at least moderate interest.

They governed the south together – she in person and he through letters and dependants.

And yet there is no doubt in Loghain's mind that people laughed behind their backs, watching his every step in anticipation of his inevitable failures. Those could be minor – forgetting to extend invitation to the important people, hosting a disastrous event, speaking of the wrong matters – or major, such as unwittingly allowing the starved farmers to run amok and all but destroy Lord Dunn's estate, a mess forcing Maric to intervene in the end. Loghain was a hog in fancy armour but he was the right hand of the King himself, who made it no secret he trusted Loghain with his life, which gave them all the more reason to hope for his downfall.

It is only fair, Loghain supposes, for his most serious mistakes to be witnessed by all of Ferelden, accounted for before the whole of the Landsmeet.

He climbed high; his fall must be brutal.

This is what he reminds himself of, what everything reminds him of. The life he used to lead and where it took him. And he is thankful, each day and beyond _words_ , that Celia isn't alive to see it.

Anora has saved a few belongings from the Palace – some books, a handful of maps, old papers – and he has brought those along with his sword and shield and the best bow he could find. These things are the only marks in his temporary home that say something about who he is.

They cannot take the risk of speaking face to face so Loghain has learned the name of his daughter's most trusted courier by now, having seen him every day since the fall of the Archdemon. Domak, a giant oaf of a man who might very well be mute save for the scant words he utters upon arrival and departure. He arrives daily with something – parcels containing not only information and instructions but also gold, food, even clean, neatly folded clothes – and Loghain accepts them, then politely tells the man to return with a simple message of gratitude.

He knows he must leave the city as soon as possible. For her sake if nothing else.

.

.

Last time he attended a royal wedding he had stood in these very halls, a hard knot of disgust in his stomach and a sense of dread seeping into the air that surrounded them.

The expenses had been significantly greater back then, he reckons, the display and finery more pronounced and both Rowan and Maric had been irrevocably gone, leaving echoes in between the chairs at the tables. Everything from that time, from the _before_ that Loghain has conveniently tucked away into the farthest corners of his mind, had been erased as Cailan swore the oaths by Anora's side and if Loghain had felt old then, it's nothing compared to how he feels now.

In this room he is little but a ghost.

The crowd is smaller this time, more subdued. Surprisingly few of the nobles he has overheard are openly critical of the Chantry-raised bastard seizing the crown after Cailan. Naturally there is gossip and a few badly disguised frowns at the new king's obvious discomfort in his role, but the vitriol is lacking. Most people are genuinely glad the past year's turmoil is dealt with. It speaks volumes about the damned boy's reign, Loghain thinks, suppressing a grimace. It says even more about his own disastrous time up there, calling himself regent.

The lords and ladies from Gwaren – _his_ lords and ladies, Celia's voice in his head still reminds him - are there in large numbers. He feels an unexpected rush of loyalty, followed by shame, as they scrutinize him with guarded expressions and glances amongst themselves. He doesn't walk up to them.

In the middle of the room the royal couple and their suite stand, dutifully smiling at their guests, making every effort at pleasing them with their presence so the oaths sworn later will be as honest as possible and the uproars kept to minimum. At least Anora does her share of the work - while the boy looks worse off, paling in the bright candle-lit room and seemingly drowning in his own armour. For a few moments he is such a spitting image of his father - long before said father had found the cruelty necessary to rule - that the past seems to have shifted, bled into the present and altered reality altogether.

Loghain can't hold back a grimace this time.

He steps closer to the wall, where scattered groups of nobles are chatting and drinking. Resisting the urge to lean the back of his head against the tapestry-clad walls behind him, he settles for folding his arms across his chest. It was not so long ago that he needed painkilling draughts to _move_. He should be thankful.

"My knights are waiting in the wings, ser, should there be any trouble."

He looks to his right and spots Cauthrien, fully armed and adopting a cautiously friendly expression. She has recovered well. Last time Loghain saw her she was being carried off to the Chantry healers after having held Fort Drakon for a full day with only a handful of men to her aid. The absurdity in that, in the entire battle of Denerim, returns with full flavour when she stands here like this.

"Cauthrien. It's good to see you," he says, nodding his greeting.

"Huh. There are more than enough people in this room who would like to see you hang, even now," she replies without preamble, leaving his pleasantries hanging mid-air.

"Of course. I expected no less." He frowns. "Did you?"

"It's hardly a joking matter."

"It wasn't a joke."

Cauthrien scoffs, as though she won't even condescend to giving an answer to that.

Maric aside, this is the person who has been closest to him over the past years and her voice, her patterns and habits are nearly as well-known to him as his own. They would have to be, for him to make her his second in command. He can predict and interpret her, better than she realises. Now, Loghain notices, she is torn between her head and her heart and it aggravates her. Cauthrien is famous for not listening to either, if pressed hard enough. She's a _force_ : brutish strength and cold calculation wrapped into a sword-arm that hits like a full storm, and stands like an imperturbable mountain beside what she has sworn to defend. Maric had never approved of Loghain's promotions of her – he had never approved of Loghain's forming a group of elite soldiers in the first place – and asked once, his voice steel, if Loghain was to transform every promising young warrior in the nation into copies of himself.

"You should not have come." With a quick look around, she leans closer. "As I said, my men are here, but they can't serve as your bodyguards."

"I am here as a Grey Warden, and I certainly hope not." Loghain steps out of the way as a pair of young noblewomen pass by, not able to tear their gazes away from him, likely hoping for a noteworthy scandal to make the Landsmeet pale in comparison. "Maric's Shield protects the crown."

"Yes, ser." The mournful tone isn't lost on him but he ignores it all the same. "And who protects you?"

And with a subtle bow she steps away again, like a shadow.

Loghain groans to himself, wishing for something stronger than this diluted sodding wine to drink. He regrets coming, curses the curiosity and need to remain in control of whatever courses that can affect his own future that drove him here. It's wearing him out already. This bloody Palace has that effect on him, its floors and walls thick like those of a prison, the atmosphere downright stifling.

The horde of the gathered nobility of Ferelden does nothing to improve matters.

There's only one person in this room he can approach without it seeming inappropriate, without running the risk of being suspected of treason or rebellion or stabbed to death by those once sworn to him in mutual fealty. If someone told him weeks ago that the thought of her could make him anything less than livid with anger, he would have deemed them idiots, yet here he stands, thinking of her as the only resort at the moment. Pathetic as that may be, he has a royal wedding to get through, preferably alive.

She is occupied socialising several feet away, in a corner of the least populated area of the room and Loghain manages quite efficiently to help himself to a glass of wine, avoiding the Arl of West Hill while at the same time shooting a glance at Anora, who is granting a handful of banns a moment's audience.

He has, however, never seen the Warden look so uncomfortable.

He has in fact seen her send soldiers straight to their deaths with less agony in her face.

Not that she looks anything like herself tonight. She's wearing a silk dress that has several colourful layers, with ornate embroidery splashed across it and Loghain admittedly knows very little of dresses, but this looks like an expensive one, worthy of any royal wedding. A dress that either belongs to someone else or has been purchased under great personal stress since the Warden he knows would rather spend gold on a new blade than on a piece of clothing that doesn't even come with protective runes. Her hair is carefully braided and befitting a noblewoman. Catching his commander's gaze, he receives a scathing glare.

"Not a _word_ , Loghain."

"Warden," he says anyway. Her exasperated look makes it nearly impossible not to smile.

She moves differently wrapped in the rustle of rich, heavy cloth, struggling somewhat to manage the skirts. It seems to annoy her greatly but amuse the man by her side who, judging by his appearance, is the long lost brother.

"Loghain, you may remember my brother – Fergus. Future Teyrn of Highever."

"My lord," Loghain says, nodding.

Fergus hesitates briefly, caught between titles and the abandonment of titles, Loghain presumes. Most people are. Then he nods back, his face closed off but vaguely polite.

"Warden," he offers on cue.

"My condolences for what happened to your family." Loghain feels a fool for saying it, all things considered. But it's good form and form doesn't take into account the fact that he allied himself with the man behind the coup against Highever. Form rarely takes people into account at all.

"Thank you," Fergus says evenly, glancing at his sister who looks like she is consenting. There was a good portion of the influential nobles, Loghain recalls, who did not see Fergus Cousland fit to succeed Bryce. Rumour had it Bryce himself agreed. The boy was a soldier, not a politician, word had it; yet he appears to have grown into his part reasonably well, like most of them do. If he possesses even a fraction of his sister's talent for leadership, the north will have a fine teyrn, Loghain thinks to himself.

As the three of them raise their glasses almost simultaneously and without words, the small group of people next to Fergus stir a little, approaching slowly. The Warden observes them intently.

"Lady Hertha and her sisters are upon us," she says in a low voice, raising an eyebrow. "Shall I leave you to your fate or do you wish me to chaperon you, brother?"

"Ah." Fergus sighs. "You do give her less credit than she deserves."

"Do I? I merely think she's the conniving daughter of a two-faced bastard who always quarrelled with father and opposed his decisions."

"You just thinks vassals should be quiet," Fergus says, smirking. "Serving as pretty ornaments."

"Lady Hertha is hardly _pretty_."

"Isn't she? I hadn't noticed."

The Warden snorts, taking a sip of wine. Loghain doesn't recognise the young woman who is on her way to their little constellation, but she must be a minor noble from Highever, if their comments are anything to go by. Her eyes are fixed on the future teyrn who, in turn, is still looking at his sister with a teasing glint in his eyes.

"You may leave, Elissa." He turns around to greet the women. "Lady Hertha. My ladies. I trust you are enjoying the feast?"

Loghain feels a hand on his arm and a firm push as the Warden is leading them both away. She has a wistful look on her face, underlined by the tiredness in her voice as they seek out the most reclusive spot in the entire hall.

"My brother's a good man," she says. "Too good, possibly."

"He has advisors, I take it?" Loghain notices Eamon and Teagan are looking in their direction. Wearily, he turns away.

She shrugs. "I don't know _what_ he has now. What's left, I mean."

"You will still be able to advise him, regardless."

"Will I?" She glares at her drink, downing the whole of it. "Yeah. If the Wardens send me to bloody Rialto Bay or Weisshaupt, I'm sure my letters will arrive just in time for Fergus to have married what will be his certain death."

This is a streak of dramatics in the Warden that he hasn't noticed before. It paints her as a much younger woman – or reveals how young she actually is, he isn't certain of which.

"Speaking from experience," Loghain proceeds, "I think your brother will have entirely too much to occupy his thoughts in the near future to even consider courting."

"Ha!" she gives a little chortle. "You do not know Fergus. Before he married, he was... well, he was certainly not wasting any opportunities."

"All the better then; if he is as accustomed to women and courting as you suggest, he will know to evade the disasters."

Loghain himself had been – much to Maric's grim amusement – utterly unfamiliar with the rituals he was expected to participate in when it came to courtships of suitable ladies. Noblewomen were in all things very far from the simple girls he had been accustomed to and not, he found, in a particularly flattering way. It had offered a peculiar kind of torture, learning this.

"I suppose." Her sigh is heavy, then suddenly the stern worry in her face melts into a smile. "Are you trying to _comfort_ me, Loghain?"

He sneers, but says nothing.

And then, by way of bells and drums announcing it, there is _dancing_.

Loghain instinctively backs away from the floor, and he notices the Warden does the same, so hurriedly in fact that she nearly steps on the bottom of her own dress and stumbles into a nearby lord. Regaining her balance, she proceeds to withdraw and Loghain follows suit in a mutual agreement of sorts. The large entrance is guarded by guards that make no sign of even recognising them as they walk past them, out towards the corridor where the servants are running back and forth. Still stuck in a crowded spot, but with people who are in no position to care about what they do, Loghain finds himself relaxing almost immediately.

"No dancing in Highever?" he puts his empty goblet of wine down on a nearby table.

"Oh, I dance." She adjusts her dress with a little grimace. "Only not voluntarily or with much grace."

Loghain himself has danced as little as possible for thirty years and it has always served as a very vivid reminder of his origins. There seems very little reason to change this fact tonight.

"Come," the Warden says, quickly.

With him at her heels she climbs the flight of the stairs in the entrance, stairs that lead up to a heavily guarded area of the Palace – plenty of sitting rooms, the chamber he used as an office, bed chambers and private quarters for the advisors – and slumps down on the bench placed on the landing. There's a basket full of fruits and a jug of wine conveniently placed in every empty spot of the estate and this is no exception.

Loghain reaches for a pale winter apple as he sits down, too.

"Are you enjoying the wedding?" The Warden – he _tries_ to think of her as Commander, or even Elissa, but old habits die hard – asks, with only the faintest touch of sarcasm in her voice.

"Hardly," he replies, taking a bite of the apple and stretching out his legs. "Are you?"

She snorts. "The roast calf was tender beyond belief. It will be on my mind for a while. And I'm finding myself pleasantly drunk. Other than that, no, I cannot say I do."

"Royal weddings are rarely entertaining."

There's a sharp noise coming from below them and Loghain tenses immediately, as does his companion on the bench, he feels, her hands pausing mid-air when they find no swords to grab. He is about to get to his feet when they hear laughter again, and someone shouting bravos _._ They both let out a sigh. The drums of war in their heads, the constant readiness and reflexes will not vanish for a long while yet, he knows. He suspects the Warden realises this as well.

They are silent for a while, resting in the reassuring hum rising from the dancing hall and the clattering of trays and plates among the servants.

"Alistair will get used to ruling," the Warden says suddenly. Her voice is firm but otherwise expressionless. "Last time we spoke he said he wouldn't roll over and let Anora decide."

Loghain knows this part. He knows it better than he would like, and feels old again, looking at her.

"Anora is a strong Queen," he says. "But I have not raised a tyrant, Warden. She will treat him as justly as he deserves, in ruling as in everything else."

She winces a little at that; sitting bent forward with her elbows on her knees, swirls the glass in her hand, then sways it back and forth in her palm while keeping it in place with her other hand. Her eyes don't meet his.

"Eamon wanted me to marry Alistair," she says, quietly.

"I had suspected as much." Loghain nods.

"Yes. He told me Alistair would need me and – not surprisingly - that the boy he raised among the servants and later sent away to live in a sodding Chantry would require a political mind beside him on the throne." She sneers, her voice dry now. "And I said I had already seen to it."

Still the same petty triumph at the failure of Eamon's campaign to remove the commoner blood from the throne, Loghain thinks with a badly disguised smirk.

"I could have gained some support as queen, I assume," she continues, glancing at him. "But far from Anora's popularity. It would have been too great a risk."

They speak of this as a matter consisting solely of politics. Loghain finds himself wondering about the part that isn't, possibly reading too much of his own past into it all. He shakes his head as to rid it of the memories. The Warden watches him.

"It can't have been without conflicts and complications back when Maric took the throne, either?"

"No," Loghain says. "It wasn't. The Orlesians had been around for too long for that. And the rebellion took several years. Things... changed over the course of it."

She nods, simply.

One day, perhaps, they might talk about _that_ , too. That day is not today, however, and it's not here in this place where they are badly suited to do anything but wait for the cue to leave.

"It must be strange for you," she remarks, as though something has just occurred to her.

"To be here, you mean?"

"Yes. It's strange for me, too, being around people I know but no longer have bonds to. I'm not a Cousland. Not even to Fergus, I'm..." She presses her hands to her legs, smoothing out the tiny crinkles in the silk. "For you it must be... _terribly_ strange."

"It's odd," he agrees.

She is silent for a long while again. He eats his apple, observing the large paintings downstairs and thinks about how Maric had banned those from his private chambers, claiming he would never get anything done if he had a horde of giants watching over his shoulder.

"When I got dressed in this...thing," she grimaces and tears at the skirt of her dress, "I was looking for suitable places for my daggers, thinking of battle and unforeseen events. And then it dawned on me that I'm neutral. I'm a Warden. My only duty is to Thedas, to defend it from darkspawn. And the only one in this hall that I can rightly call an ally is you."

Loghain sneers.

"All the more reason to tap into the recruitment process as quickly as possible then," he says, not intending it as joke, but is nonetheless met with an unexpected and most genuine ripple of laughter.

"Yes," she agrees, still grinning. "You are right. But first I have to survive another banquet in, oh, a little less than a day."

And then she gets to her feet, swiftly for someone who recently suffered severe injuries, and places a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance as the dress bothers her once more. Loghain wonders what the odds are that he will see her in her usual armour tomorrow, banquet or not.

"I'm going to find my brother before he finds himself in someone else's chamber," she says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, you will."

He is glad there is an end to these festivities. After tomorrow, Denerim will go back to its regular state of rebuilding and this pomp will quickly be forgotten. As will their battles, he knows, even the Warden's heroics will fade soon enough without constant reminders.

Outside, as he leaves the Palace only minutes later, the air is cold. The crispness in it is harsh but _fresh_ , and it seems to reinforce the lines of the city that spread out before him on his way back to the inn; as though they're branches stiffened by nights of frost and snow. He takes a deep breath, grateful for the chill in his lungs.

Winter is coming.


	2. Where do we go from here?

_The battle's done_

_And we've kind of won_

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: the Musical

* * *

Elissa stands in the Palace courtyard, waving.

Waving. And _smiling_ stiffly at a crowd that isn't decreasing in numbers despite the fact that the sun is about to set and she has been here for what feels like half her life, embodying what Queen Anora calls the _spirit of Ferelden_. It sounds a bit grim, considering Elissa was nearly dying not two weeks ago but the intention behind the words is well-meaning, she supposes.

Elissa is surrounded by knights from the royal guard, utterly untouchable, and yet she has the distinct impression that everyone is too close, that she will be overwhelmed by the sheer mass of the faces and voices and hands, reaching out to greet her. On her way through the crowd she is touched, her hands are held and her back receives pats like she's one of them, just another one who did something good. Yet their way of glancing at her – half terrified (they say she stood on the Archdemon and laughed, tore out its heart with her own two hands) and half envious (they say, too, that she has so much gold now that she can buy her own teyrnir back) – breathes nothing but distance, wide-stretched lengths of time and that solitude that makes her feel like a statue already.

"Fereldans! Citizens of Denerim! This is the Hero of Ferelden!" a town crier shouts, once more.

Elissa walks back up towards the main entrance; as she is looking at the crowd she's unable to rid herself of the feeling she has been trapped in time, somehow. She knows, because her father told her, that this is the exact spot where Prince Maric and Commander Loghain once greeted the newly liberated people of Denerim, riding into the city as saviours. She knows, because she can sense it in the things he never says, that Loghain, too, stood here with something close to dread building up inside.

Ferelden expects much of its heroes.

"Oh my lady is _terribly_ brave!" The plump, steel-haired woman who Elissa recalls is the Queen's former governess stands with her hands clasped together and her face positively beaming with excitement, all but grabbing hold of Elissa as she returns inside. "The things they tell us of your battle! That night on Fort Drakon, my lady, it's simply _marvellous_!"

"I was not alone up there," Elissa says, smiling habitually by now. "But it's kind of you to say so."

The woman smiles back. It seems only good manners keeps her from pinching Elissa's cheeks or tousling her hair. An odd thing to do to someone who is rumoured to have devoured Archdemon blood, fresh from the corpse.

"They will want to commemorate this event with a set of tapestries, I'm sure, my lady!"

"Oh, of course," Elissa agrees without correcting her use of the title. She has never been this well-behaved in her life but the polite surface she's hidden herself beneath is thick tonight, offers comfort and protection.

"You might get to pose for the artist, even!" The woman grins even wider.

"Yes, that's... that might very well be true."

"Oh, do you think they will hang your portrait in the Palace? I think they will!"

"I... have to be on my way," Elissa waves vaguely into the little group of people where she can distinctly see Zevran's blond hair. Never before has he seemed like such a safe haven, she thinks.

If this announcement causes any disappointment, that too is carefully hidden behind the radiant joy of being close to the Hero of Ferelden.

"Of course, my lady."

And that night they partake in another feast.

At least this banquet is a more subdued occasion, free from vengeful nobility and forced dancing and Elissa feels closer to rest and relaxation than she has in long time, her entire body rejoicing in this transient sense of _calm_. Because of course it is fleeting. She knows that. It's in the way Anora looks at her, in the way the uninvited Wardens are approaching the city gates and the way she carries the new titles. The whispers of the future is already there.

But tonight they celebrate.

They sit at a long table in the great hall and take their supper that is as varied and plentiful as the previous night's but not quite as overwhelming, as the atmosphere is completely different. An odd blend of formal – they have the King and Queen present after all, even if almost no one calls them _Majesty_ in this company – and casual, with Oghren conducting them all to join in on drinking songs so filthy they could make anyone blush.

Elissa sits in between a smiling Bann Teagan and a slightly tipsy Fergus who simply does not stop talking. At the other end of the table, Loghain is listening to something Leliana says without seeming to pay much attention. Elissa lets her gaze linger there for a moment. The times she has seen him without armour are so few it still surprises her: he wears an embroidered tunic and brown trousers and yet somehow he manages to look like he is dressed for battle; she smiles to herself. It's the stern posture and the stiffness in those broad shoulders. He's ready to attack. As is she, although an upcoming event where she is required to use her hidden daggers seem less probable with each sip of ale.

"Tell me, little sister, is she as marvellous as she appears to be?"

"Who is?" Elissa says, realising she has been listening to him for a while now without hearing a word.

"The Queen of Antiva," Fergus has bright red cheeks, like a little boy. "No more ale for you, apparently!"

"He was talking about your friend, the Orlesian woman," Teagan whispers helpfully.

"Ah." She smiles at him. "Thank you."

"They have been chatting all day," he elaborates, taking a sip of his drink.

Leliana is raising her goblet to Loghain and grinning at Elissa when their eyes meet across the tables. Of course. _Leliana_.

"If by marvellous you mean clever, cunning and strong enogh to take down an Ogre with her longbow, then yes, she is." Elissa turns to Fergus. "She was also a lay sister once, if that sort of thing strikes your fancy."

Fergus ears turns a shade of crimson. She can't remember if she has ever seen her boisterous older brother embarrassed before and the sister in her triumphs quietly into her goblet of ale. He doesn't bring the topic up again and Elissa devotes herself entirely to the warm sliced bread arriving along with the plates full of salted meat and smoked fish.

When she rises from the table afterwards, when all food is gone and she feels as full as Dog, ready to burst, Teagan follows her out into the corridor. Elissa comes to a halt in front of a large portrait of King Calenhad, glancing back at him.

"We had one of these paintings in the castle," she says, quietly. She wonders what happened to all their belongings once Howe and his men took over the grounds. If they were thrown out with the corpses he told her they burned. Shuddering, she forces that particular conversation out of her mind.

Teagan walks up to her side, standing with her in silence for a while longer, so close she can feel his shoulder against her own.

"You must miss Highever," he says eventually. He has a very comforting voice, Elissa thinks, letting herself rest in it for a moment. "It has been a long year for you, hasn't it?"

"One could say that, yes."

"I wanted to let it be known that Redcliffe and the bannorn of Rainesfere is more than willing to aid you in the future," Tegan looks at her, almost solemnly. And it is a kind of oath he offers, after all."We are forever indebted to you."

Elissa shakes her head. "No, you are not. I am glad I could help. It is my duty, after all."

"You went far beyond your duty for my family's sake, my lady."

"Please," she turns a little so she can look him in the eyes. " _Elissa_. I am no lady."

Teagan smiles at that, as though it seems amusing to him that she can sever the ties to a title so easily, toss it out the window. Then he puts his hand on her arm, very quickly and carefully.

"Then I offer you the service and gratitude of my bannorn, Elissa. You are always a welcome guest, no matter what your purpose for the visit may be."

"You say that now," she arches an eyebrow. "But when I have scraped your land bare of capable knights and soldiers you might regret this moment."

"I might." Teagan laughs. The tiny wrinkles around his eyes when he does that make her smile, oddly enough. Elissa withdraws.

"Thank you kindly, Teagan," she says. "I appreciate your generosity."

"Any time, Elissa."

She can't rid herself of the thought that he watches her intently as she walks away.

She walks upstairs. Outside. All day she has been in her full armour, carrying the Highever shield she rarely used in any battles but that she never once forgot in any camp site, waving with the family sword to the people. It's not a Grey Warden thing to do, which sends a rebellious joy through her.

The balcony offers peace.

Out here the chill and the light breeze pierce her tunic and trousers, very gently, and she closes her eyes for a while. Noise from the celebration feasts are rising, as a reminder of why there are here and what they have done.

In case anyone would forget.

Her eyes fall upon a candlestick made out of bright, polished gold that's seems almost immovably heavy where it stands in a corner. It stands on three feet, each of which is shaped as a snake slithering around a column. An odd item to find in the Palace, Elissa thinks, alluding to legends and myths she is unfamiliar with. She crouches down, a finger tracing one of the snakes. Its carefully detailed skin even has the slight scales she remembers from the time she has had to dispose of snakes in their camp.

Then there are steps behind her. She hopes, quickly and before she has time to filter her own thoughts, that it's not Teagan again; she is too exhausted for that studied way of talking she employs in his presence, the defence against his voice's promise of something _more_ every time they speak. He's a good conversationalist, a polite and warm man with a good heart and everything he says has a taste of long afternoons in Highever where her mother, over tea or casually thrown over the back of a book she was reading would say _the lovely Teagan,_ and always expect a different answer than last time.

But it's not Teagan. She doesn't feel Teagan like a low soar in her blood. Elissa relaxes back on her heels.

"That is an Orlesian treasure," Loghain says behind her.

"Oh? I tried to remember any myths that would explain its design."

"We saved a lot of their treasures when we drove them out," he explains, without waiting for her question. It must be a first. "Got us a decent amount of gold years later when we sold it back to Orlais. Maric... wanted to keep certain items."

"To remind himself?"

"In the beginning, yes I think so." Loghain's voice fades away.

"It's a rather gaudy candlestick." Elissa rises to her full height, adjusting her trousers in the process. No clothes fit properly any more. Where she had soft, supple fat she now has muscles and the once round curves are square now, tweaked into hard angles. It's as unfamiliar as being the hero of a whole nation.

Loghain gives her a half-smile. "It's Orlesian."

They look at each other, both very much aware of what the near future will bring. Taking a deep breath, Elissa steps away from the Orlesian treasure and walks further out on the balcony, so much that she can see the feast down on the courtyard where the servants have taken their meal. Lanterns and candles light up the night, giving off a gust of warmth even as the night grown colder.

"Speaking of Orlesians," she says, "I have summoned a meeting with them the day after tomorrow."

"Very well." He walks closer to where she's standing. "I take it you have invited them to your brother's estate?"

She nods, leaning out over the parapet; night-air in her lungs and ale in her blood, and that childish rush in her head and deep in her stomach – one more step, one more, a little further – when balance is upset and she can almost _feel_ what falling would be like.

"Did you pose for artists?" she asks, returning to safety and steady feet on the ground.

The images of him in her head – the paintings of him in his cloak, in his silverite armour, with his black hair like a billowing mane; not to mention the paintings of him and Maric - bleed into the idea of him, the _actual_ Loghain, posing for such things. She can't hold back a wide grin.

"Pardon?" He looks confused, even more so when he notices her amusement.

"Oh, nothing. I was confronted with... is her name Constance?"

"Madam Colette," he sighs, a bit weary but not unkind, like he's speaking of a friend. Odd as that may seem, considering their personalities. "Learned like you would never believe, speaking to her. My wife hired her as a tutor for Anora. She lived in Gwaren for many years, until she married a scholar from Denerim."

Elissa chuckles. "She seems to have high hopes for a wall of tapestries carrying my portrait."

"I am not surprised." Loghain snorts.

Below them a dance has started, ill-conducted and very loud; a whole crowd of men sit sprawled over one of the wells in the garden outside the main entrance. It's a small wonder nobody falls into it.

"Was it like this?" she asks, after a moment's silence. She doesn't have to explain further, she can tell by the way Loghain glances at her.

"Not precisely. We ended an occupation." He leans against a pillar, turning his back on the view. When she looks closely, his face seems different these past few days; he looks better rested and less pale than she recalls, possibly less gaunt, too. She wonders if the Warden appetite has finally set in."There were those who mourned the regime; most people had lost too much to care either way."

"Did you... feel like a hero?"

It's a laughable question, but Loghain doesn't laugh.

"Hardly," he says, his voice low.

There is so much she wants to ask, wants to pour out of herself and ask him to sort out for her, he who has lived this life already. But she can't. Not yet.

Resting her elbows on the parapet and looking down, Elissa wonders how late it is and if is expected to be here for much longer. Her entire body longs for the wide, luxurious bed Fergus has offered her in his fanciest guest room. As though Loghain has read her thoughts, he straightens up and looks at her.

"I was on my way home," he says. "I wanted to let you know."

"I'm leaving, too." She tries to rub off the dirt from the stone surfaces by brushing her hands against each other.

He gives her a sardonic little smile that touches upon bitterness, if only ever so slightly. "Not going to stay at your own celebration?"

"I _waved_ for most of the afternoon, Loghain."

They speak no more on their way down, and with a simple nod Loghain is gone.

Elissa feels strangely alone in the great hall; her companions are standing in small groups, full of that kind of relief and happiness she certainly doesn't begrudge them after this horrible year. She watches Zevran and Oghren entertain Leliana; sees Eamon and Teagan talking animatedly to Wynne and Shale; spots Anora discuss something with Sten, who is looking charmed, to Elissa's surprise. He is as close to smiling as she has even seen him. Possibly drunk.

As she withdraws a bit, to stand in front of the windows behind the two elves who are playing flute and tambourines, she notices Alistair is making his way across the room to her.

She braces herself.

The weight of him is still heavy and thick in her heart, made worse by the sharp pangs of guilt at the thought of what she has done to him. Elissa swallows, hard. He stands beside her now.

"Look, we don't _have_ to talk to each other," Alistair says, giving a disbelieving shake of his head, as though it amazes him he is there.

"No," she agrees.

"I understand Anora is giving you a private audience tomorrow," he says anyway.

"We will meet to speak of the future," Elissa responds, as carelessly as possible.

"Oh, of course." The fact that he's bitter isn't a surprise to her but the massive extent of his bitterness still overwhelms he. "The future. And I don't have anything to do with that."

"It concerned the Grey Wardens. So no, it is nothing that will affect you."

They both stand like statues in front of the windows; Elissa tries to contain her own emotions, force them inside her body by keeping a hand on the windowsill, pressing it so hard her knuckles whiten. Alistair stands motionless, arms folded across his chest.

"What did you do?" he asks. "With the Archdemon, I mean."

"Like I told you, we killed it."

"Just like that, huh? You just went after it and it fell? No bit about how its essence needs a new vessel and that it's supposed to kill the Warden who takes the final blow? Nothing like that?"

Elissa is quiet.

"How did you _do_ it?" He repeats the question, looks hard at her. There is a glint of the king he will become in that gaze, and it scares her.

"I used a sword."

Alistair laughs a harsh, short laugh that is without any joy. "I see."

"You just _left_." Elissa feels it returning, the fury she felt at the Landsmeet, with lives in her hands and Alistair's voice, cutting through her thoughts. And his desperation afterwards, when her game of thrones tore the heart from his sleeve; she had offered this man something he never thought he would have and then, when politics demanded it, she gave him away like a convenient means of payment for an alliance with the Queen.

She has little right to feel fury. Yet she does.

"I became king." Alistair's voice is hollow now, washed out."Like you wanted, remember?"

"You left us. I know you fought in the city, but you left the Wardens on the verge of a Blight and we had no... we didn't... " She pauses, unclenching her fists. "Riordan _died_ and Loghain and I nearly did, too. Don't you dare question me about how we dealt with the Archdemon when you _left_ , your _Majesty_."

Alistair flinches, like she's hit him.

"Don't call me _that_ ," he growls. He paces the floor, restlessly, stopping once more at the window where the painted glass makes his features shift between blue and green and purple; Elissa can't look away. "You spared him. I know you did what you thought was right. But I couldn't. I just... couldn't."

"I know."

"And now he's going to be a hero and recruit people? He's going to do what Duncan did? How can you let him _do_ that; how can that not _bother_ you?"

Elissa sighs. There is nothing they say to each other any more that heals or soothes, all of their words merely _separate_ , drive them further apart, and this, Elissa knows as she tries not to show it, this is what truly hurts.

"I don't think I can explain this so you will understand."

He laughs again, just as unhappily as before. "That's true, at least."

There's a trail of things she knows about Alistair, leading back from whatever place she has the memory of them buried; all the little things, so small when you first learn them but seem so large now, towering beside her. Like the fact that he sleeps on his left side. And the fact that he doesn't like beetles; that he takes his tea with milk and honey and has a sweet tooth; that he still prays almost every night but has never actually thought it makes a difference; that he is self-conscious about his height and that when he was six or seven, he was in love with a servant's daughter who locked him up in the kitchen storage.

There are so many _things_.

And she doesn't know what to do with the trail, the path. She can't follow it and it doesn't go away and when he looks at her now, she wonders when it will stop.

Alistair in her body, around her body, the same blood in their veins.

"I would have married you," he says suddenly, hurriedly like it's something he must say to get it _out_ , over with. He still sounds so hurt. But he is telling her the truth, like he is always telling her the truth because he is _Alistair_ and has a voice that still manages to slip under all defences and cut deep into her resolve. "And not because of politics."

"I know," she says, so quietly her voice doesn't even carry the words across the room.

With Eamon on their side and the Blight as a victory associated with her name, they could have been successfully introduced to the court. The truth - _her_ truth that is dark and shameful and buried in the ashes of dreams they created during long, terrified nights in front of the fire - is that she didn't _want_ to.

She gave Eamon plenty of good, sound, political reasoning and let the real reasons stiffen to steel in her chest.

Alistair finally looks at her, something new in his gaze. A hardness, a new edge. He understands what she doesn't say, what she never said because she thought it too cruel, too much. He has never offered her any space to breathe or fall apart; in their world there was no room for her to be anything other than strong, so she was strong, was everything he couldn't be.

He is the King of Ferelden now.

And perhaps, Elissa thinks as she walks away for what feels like the last time like this, on this particular path, he has finally freed her too.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to CJK for beta and hand-holding. And thanks to you all for reading and reviewing. 3_


	3. Still hours

Loghain hasn't been inside the Teyrn of Highever's estate for many years.

Last time he was here the courtyard had been much less ravaged by war, the large trees he distinctly recalled were planted shortly after the rebellion still stood and he was greeted by servants, not a Cousland. Technically he isn't, of course, but the Warden who meets him immediately the moment he steps inside the open doors, standing impatiently in the entrance hall is still a Cousland in his mind. Elissa. He adjusts the words for her in his head, still unused to being on a first name basis with someone he didn't wish to belittle by it.

"They haven't arrived yet," she says without preamble. Her face is closed, ready to display whatever expression needed but betraying nothing of her own feelings - a face very much like his own when he stands before a Landsmeet or the court. _Stood_ , he reminds himself. "I'm restless."

He knows that feeling. The first fortnight of uneventful existence he could tolerate, even appreciate; now he knows a thousand things that ought to be tended to but has no means to do anything about it; he sees ways and people and possibilities, potential threats and possible allies, and his only hope is that he has taught Anora well enough for her to be aware of the same things.

"It is hazardous to delay the recruiting more than necessary," he points out. "The battles ahead require a fair number of Wardens, I'd assume."

They begin to walk along the corridor, Elissa leading him into the drawing room while being unusually quiet. This is a woman who talks when she is pleased, when she is displeased, when she is distressed adn when she is, he has learned over the past few days, drunk. Whatever mood she is in now is one that does not bring out her habitual chatter.

She nods towards the armchairs at the large, ornately decorated windows facing the back courtyard where trays of tea and fruit and a little bowl of bread await them.

As they have begun drinking their tea, a servant slips in, announcing the arrival of the guests; Elissa looks up.

"Do send them in." She has a commanding presence in this house, one that is not the same as the one on the battlefield or in front of their maps. Here she is Elissa Cousland. Loghain wonders if she misses the title, how deeply this kind of life is cut into her.

The servant curtseys. "Yes, my lady."

Loghain and Elissa both rise on cue.

The arriving Wardens are led by a Dalish elf who looks to be perhaps forty or fifty but speaks low and thoughtful, resembling a much older man.

"I am Hedin, sister," he says, pressing Elissa's hands. "Senior Warden of Val Chevin."

"Brother," he says then, turning to Loghain who doesn't return the ridiculous greeting, but nods.

There are three others in the group, no more. A young serious-looking man who, without smiling or otherwise expressing any particular sentiment in either direction, presents himself as Jenner. A young mage, short and round with bushy red hair, who pats Elissa's arm – "Shirei, nice to meet you" – and a tall, blonde woman carrying a crossbow and who nods, serious-faced and pale. Loghain looks at her the longest and she offers a tentative smile in his direction.

"Hawise," she says. "Born in Gwaren but raised in Val Royeaux."

"Loghain," he nods.

"Oh, I know." Her voice is so levelled and soft-spoken there seem to be no nuances to it beside polite interest. "My parents survived to tell the tales of your rebellion."

He decides there is nothing he can or _should_ say in response to that, so he looks at the others in the room, who are all settling down in their seats, being served tea by two servants who have slipped in wordlessly during the greetings.

"We will get straight to the point, for I fear we have much to discuss." It's the mage who speaks, smiling. It seems an inappropriate thing to do, but Loghain knows little of what these Orlesians consider appropriate behaviour, after all.

"Please do," Elissa says in a tone of bland cordiality.

"Are we to understand that Riordan of Jader was the Warden who slew the Archdemon?" Hedin, the elf, asks. He sits back in the chair, folding through a pile of papers in his lap. "His death is the only one we've had reports of."

Elissa throws Loghain a glance; he almost wishes they had taken the trouble to invent that lie, regardless of the usual outcome of lying. Of course, that would also require the loyalty of the circle mage who has wished for Loghain's downfall since Ostagar and he cannot see that even his Commander could be convincing enough for _that_.

"No," she says, looking straight at the Orlesian senior Warden. "Riordan chased the Archdemon through the city."

"That sounds odd," the mage comments calmly. "You were spread out then? All three of you Wardens?"

"No," Elissa says again. "Not all of us. Loghain and I were together. Riordan opted to go alone. He... we think he cause the Archdemon severe damage, enough for it to be unable to fly."

"By the time we had reached Fort Drakon, it seemed unable to escape. It was trapped on top of the building." Loghain observes the sullen man, who is straddle-legged on the settee, his face a sceptical grimace. He draws his own voice tight. "Ask what you want to ask instead of going about it in this insolent manner."

After a brief pause, it's the tall woman in the corner – Hawise - who speaks.

"It's not possible to slay the Archdemon and live," she says thoughtfully, tilting her head to be able to look at Elissa. "We've heard legends-"

"I am sitting here, am I not?"

"But-"

"We have the decaying corpse and a cellar full of blood to prove that it was indeed an Archdemon we defeated." Elissa takes a sip of tea, being demonstratively calm, Loghain thinks. Her hands are steady and her voice unfaltering.

"Oh, no one doubts _that_ ," Hedin says. He frowns a little as he looks down on his papers again, then he smiles bleakly. "We do, however, doubt that we have been told the whole truth."

"This seems a pointless conversation then," Loghain says, attempting to remain calm. "There is little we can say and even less we can _do_ about what has already happened."

"Our purpose in Ferelden is not to give offence," Shirei shifts in her seat.

"So, tell me then, what is the purpose?" he retorts.

"We have reason to believe that the collective forces of darkspawn have divided."

"And what are those reasons?"

"Simply put it's about numbers," Hawise says, crossing her legs. "Our records show a significantly smaller amount of damage during this Blight than during any other."

Elissa nods. "Perhaps the damage has been done to different areas?"

"No, not as far as we can tell. The number of darkspawn is much smaller. And it seems improbable that they would have decreased over the years - rather the opposite. They have been left alone in the underground; they would have a _larger_ force."

"So you think something else has been calling them, too?" Elissa asks, looking serious and pale. They are both thinking of the marsh witch, he can tell from her averted gaze.

"It would explain the relatively benevolent Blight."

"Ferelden has been run over by darkspawn," Loghain reminds them, echoing, he realises with a sense of dark humour, his own adversaries not long ago."That is hardly benevolent, not even to Orlesians."

"Ferelden is the country worst ravaged by the Blight, yes," Hedin says calmly. "It has not spread far, however, which is an unusual occurrence as far back as our records go."

The mage clears her throat. "Could we go back to the night of the battle, again?"

"By all means," Elissa replies.

"You said you two were in the same group of fighters?" She nods towards Loghain and Elissa mirrors that nod.

"We were. We were joined by Wynne, a Circle healer and Morrigan."

Shirei looks uncomfortable but not surprised at the last name; Loghain shifts position in his seat and observes her intently until she speaks again.

"This is the chasind woman? The witch of the wilds?"

"Yes," Elissa admits reluctantly.

"And she was made a Warden?" Hedin holds the bloody quill ready; Loghain wonders if the elf notes when people take a piss, too.

"No. We... couldn't perform the joining-" she keeps her eyes off Loghain. "Alistair and I had neither means nor enough knowledge about that."

"Riordan would know the ritual," Hawise raises an eyebrow, obviously confused. "It seems-"

"Now you're assuming that this supposed Commander would be capable of strategy," Jenner snaps, his eyes dark as they glare at Elissa. "Which is basically unheard of in this village. A troop of two, that's a charming Fereldan idea, surely."

"If you had bothered to inform yourself of the situation in Ferelden before entertaining us with your questions," Loghain says hotly. "You would be aware that the previous Grey Warden Commander perished at Ostagar along with his Wardens."

"Jenner knows this full well," Hedin sighs, then turning to the man in question. " _Enough_."

Jenner shakes his head and retreats into himself again, arms folded across his chest. There's an anger brewing there that has nothing to do with this present situation, Loghain can tell, from habit; he would observe any soldiers he recruited closely before raising them to anything beside footsoldier, carefully avoiding making knights of those who could not rein themselves in when necessary. Maker knows war makes monsters of them anyway.

"Furthermore," Loghain falls forward in his chair, his hands resting on his knees. They will curl into fists if he lets them, so he pushes them flat against the legs of his trousers. "The supplies necessary to perform a Joining ritual had been destroyed."

"By whom?"

"Arl Howe," Elissa says, suddenly. She looks at Loghain, very quickly, as to urge his silence. Then she smiles wistfully at Hedin. "You may have heard his name; he was serving the Teyrn of Highever until he staged a coup just before the troops were supposed to leave for Ostagar, slaughtering the entire Cousland family in their own home."

"We've heard about this, although we were never given enough details to make anything of it." Hawise still sits in the same position, seemingly made a part of the cushioned chair, becoming a large ornament in it. "Why would this Arl set out to destroy the Wardens?"

"He wanted the Couslands gone," Elissa replies. "And that would be why. My brother and I survived the coup."

A silence falls. Even Jenner seems to come to halt in his disdainful glowering. Loghain wonders where his Commander is going with this adjustment of the truth, what she hopes to gain by freeing him of being the man who almost erased the Wardens from Ferelden. He cannot make sense of it and he can't take the risk of showing any confusion, so he clenches his teeth. It's a small enough lie, but even those can make deep, ugly marks in one's reputation.

"Oh, how dreadful." Shirei says eventually, sounding absolutely genuine.

"We're sorry to learn this," Hedin agrees.

"Thank you." Elissa straightens up, ever so slightly. It's a small move, barely more than a flick of her hand, but Loghain recognises it as the way she relaxes after having exhausted her own defences. A tiny crack, just as quickly closed again. It's almost as if she lets in a gust of air or a breath of something, perhaps of courage."It is, however, nothing I wish to dwell upon. And hardly significant for the Order. I merely wanted to explain. It might help in learning more about the current state of our land."

"We are grateful for any further understanding of your nation, of course," Hedin smiles now. He's so grey and insignificant not even a smile can bring any life to his face. "We intend to remain in Ferelden for quite some time."

"Indeed?" Loghain no longer cares if his expressions of dissatisfaction are visible of not.

"Yes," Hawise confirms, her face unreadable. "The Order in Orlais wishes us to stay. We've had a difficult time this year, fighting the Blight but not being allowed into the country where it was most present."

Loghain feels all gazes turn to him; he shrugs irritably. "Last time Orlesian Wardens came to Ferelden it nearly cost us our king."

"Ah, yes," Hedin nods. "I am aware of that... unfortunate affair."

"You speak of it as a matter of uncontrollable circumstances," Loghain snaps, still struggling to keep his temper under control. This is where Maric would have broken into the conversation, normally, his sensible and somewhat meek-hearted ideas pushing back Loghain's most fervent transgressions of good form. He glances over at Elissa, but she is merely giving him a curious look.

The elf rubs his forehead, squirming a little, it seems. Loghain is inordinately pleased to watch that, he must admit. If possible, he would extend this moment for much longer, prolonging the torture.

"This is an event in the past," Hedin says eventually. "The current situation is far too pressing for us to waste any time on past mistakes, wouldn't you agree, Loghain?"

"The Empress is not pleased," Shirei adds.

"I was under the impression that Grey Wardens are a politically neutral group," Elissa remarks, quietly sarcastic but in a tone that cuts through the air of the room.

"Rarely in wartimes," Jenner comments, icily. "As I'm sure you've noticed here too. Or did you not just put a Grey Warden on the throne?"

This time everyone looks at Elissa who gives a nod.

"We are grateful for your aid, of course," she says curtly, closing the conversation rather expertly. "I also have a request to make of you, but I assume the Queen has already alerted you of this matter. It is, after all, rather urgent."

To Loghain's surprise, both Shirei and Hawise nod in recognition of what this is alluding to whereas he has no idea. It jars, dully and annoyingly in his mind as though he ought to have traces of information that can lead to knowledge on this account. He searches for the Commander's gaze. She doesn't look in his direction, however, but at the mage.

"Yes, the matter is taken care of," Hedin says. "We hereby invite you, Commander, to visit our Order in Orlais as soon as can be arranged."

"I accept your invitation." Elissa leans back, head held high and her expression one of full mastery of the situation. Loghain wishes he could say the same of his own, its ungraceful fury and sneering grimaces begin to wear him down; at least these pathetic excuses for envoys aren't _important_ , he can tell as much from their behaviour. Then again he has no idea what the current Orlesian standards are, either, considering the fact that most of them are devious bloody vermin.

When the Orlesians leave, not much later, Loghain finds himself still sitting in his chair and waiting for an explanation. He has come to expect them from her, after all. She leads, certainly, and rarely requires anybody's assistance in that, but she has never before been obscuring her immediate plans as far as he knows.

"You look angry, Loghain." Elissa observes him calmly, pouring herself another cup of tea and dipping a slice of apple in it. When she has finished eating, she continues. "I was going to tell you, of course."

"But you were afraid I'd interfere?" He _is_ angry. There's little reason for it as she has the right to decide as she sees fit. His place is to follow her orders; and yet, Maker knows there is a discomfort breathing in the very air around them now.

"It was a delicate matter."

"Oh, I am certain it was." Loghain hears his own voice like a sharp lash in the air.

"It's not like-"

"We barely won the war," he interrupts her. "You _are_ aware of this, are you not? At present you are one of the most important people in Ferelden and yet you are foolish enough to jump on the first ship to Orlais and let yourself be assassinated by the Empress' own guards?"

Elissa snorts. "Don't underestimate me."

"Hardly. I am realistically estimating the power of the Orlesian army against one Warden."

"Ah. Of course." She sighs, all but rolling her eyes at him. "I am aware of my status here, Loghain. I am also aware of the fleeting nature of being a hero. If I am to use it for any grander purpose than rally farmers to join the Order, I might as well act immediately."

The most infuriating part about this, Loghain thinks, staring at the wall behind her, is that she isn't wrong. Her plan is dangerous but not necessarily delusional and he can't deny the potential usefulness in it.

She's quiet for a long time. Long enough for him to construct several plausible explanations in his head as to what she will do in Orlais. He is fairly certain it involves his daughter and Cailan, the _idiot,_ whose affairs seem destined to have bearing on their political situation for years to come. Why Loghain did not see it, he will never understand. Nor will he be able to forgive himself for the sloppiness. When the Warden Commander returns as a violated corpse he will add that to his ever-growing list of mistakes, too, and he feels it like a burning bitterness because he can't _stop_ her. He can't convince her of the nature of the Orlesians, just like he could never convince Cailan or even Anora, not entirely, not _unreservedly_ – they are all children of a different time, naïve fools who are willing to believe in the existence of dragons and ghouls but not the full extent of human corruption. Not until it marches into their country and bleeds it dry, of course. The hopelessness in trying to explain it in mere words leaves him so tired he barely has any anger left.

"What do you know of these Orlesians and their loyalties?" he asks, still having the taste of fury at the back of his throat, threatening to overtake him. "They may be the Empress' puppets, for all we know."

"She does interfere in Warden business to a disturbing extent." Elissa sighs. After a sip of tea she looks at him again. "Our land is in disarray, Loghain. If there was anything to these letters that we found, if Cailan had any serious intentions and if there were, in fact, proposals of a lasting peace in the making-" Loghain snorts at the word _peace_. She pauses, but not for long. "I think that the best time to find out is sooner rather than later. We're in too vulnerable a position to risk anything."

"And sending the Commander of the Fereldan Wardens to her death is no risk?" He had not thought her so careless with her own life, not when they bargained so desperately for it with the marsh witch, not after what she had convinced _him_ to do. There's a surge of anger at her words as well, piercing him in spots he rarely acknowledges, a rush of irritation that not even his sense of dignity can diminish and a misplaced sense of betrayal. "You are to play this into the Empress' hands!"

"I am _not_ , Loghain." Elissa folds her arm across her chest. "I can handle myself."

"Against a whole nation full of enemies? Pardon me, Warden, but not even you can be vain enough to believe this."

"Who else would you suggest sending to investigate this then? Are you offering to go?" The question isn't malicious at all, rather subdued considering the topic of their argument, but he grimaces at it anyway.

"Who else will be the Hero of Ferelden when you have yourself killed?" he throws back at her, watching her eyes widen slightly. Then she shakes her head, looking dissolutely at him.

The room is utterly silent for a long time. Loghain watches the paintings on the walls, determined on waiting for her to speak.

"You're right," she says eventually, to his surprise. "This _is_ a far-fetched idea. A dangerous plan that I'm reluctant to put into motion. But I will still do it, because we have little choice."

Trust her to counter his anger with this nearly sensible reasoning, he thinks to himself, shaking his head too. It's much more gratifying to debate with someone who is prone to acknowledge his point of view, but not even half as simple to argue. For a fraction of second he wishes the commander was Cailan, arrogant, blind Cailan who would often let himself be talked down from great heights of stupidity if coaxed properly into believing he made the decisions. But she isn't him; if anything she is resembling _Maric_ \- headstrong, careless and humble in a confusing and painful combination.

"Since there seems to be nothing I can say that will convince you otherwise, I wish you luck then," he says, almost against himself. "I think you are wrong; this is a foolish plan that serves little purpose but placing you in great danger."

"I appreciate your concern, Loghain." The shadow of a smile on her lips is both frustrating and fascinating.

"Don't flatter yourself, Warden," he says, but even as he speaks the words he wonders if she isn't correct in that, too. He _is_ concerned about her safety. She is his commander and, Maker knows, she might also be the only person in this country save his own daughter who isn't plotting his immediate death by assassin. Truth be told he has no desire to be left alone with this Order of theirs either. "Very well. Who will accompany you?"

"Zevran has asked to come," she says, her eyes meeting his. "And I assume one or two of the Orlesian Wardens are escorting me. Other than that, I will of course demand a handful of soldiers."

"I see."

She holds out the teapot for him, but he shakes his head. The sweetness of her tea choice is too much, he has a stale taste in his mouth, reminding him of the kind of pastry Maric was overly fond of and always demanded for feasts.

"I trust you to be the Commander in my absence, Loghain." Her voice has shifted now, it's a familiar blend of strict and warm, echoing both of years long gone and recent nights around the fireplace.

"So it appears."

"I want to put this behind me rather quickly," she says. "I know we have a lot of things that require our attention here in Ferelden, and the battles with the darkspawn are hardly over – there were reports just this morning of a horde hitting villages near Highever, in fact."

"I heard." Loghain reaches for a slice of bread from the tray between them. In this estate things seem almost normal, down to the details of food and drink, but he knows there are enough starving farmers in the countryside to cause a whole new war within months. "What do you want me to do?"

Pulling back strands of hair that falls into her eyes as she leans forward, Elissa looks at him for a moment, as if she hasn't already been pondering this very question for as long as her own plans have been fixed.

"My brother is travelling north," she says eventually. "He wishes to be present in Highever during this time and is eager to get going before winter is upon us. He has suggested the Wardens begin recruiting there."

An independent order of warriors, indeed. Loghain sneers. But he cannot deny the merit of her – because there is no doubt in his mind that this is Elissa's doing – idea of sending him to Highever. It's a region that has given Ferelden many fine soldiers. And he would be relatively safe there, free to rebuild the ranks without much interruption. At least one Warden will live to see the restoration of the nation. He grimaces again.

"Are you planning on taking a ship to Orlais?" The bread reminds him of the fact that he has not eaten anything substantial today, so he reaches for some more. Elissa observes him intently.

"I don't know." She leans back again. "Fergus would like me to accompany him to Highever, certainly. He has not been back since... the attack. His men are already there, but they will not have done much more than cleaning out the grounds, if that."

She's quiet again, for a long time, before burying her face in her hands and groaning.

"Maker's breath, Loghain, I'm _drained_."

Unused as he is to these kinds of confessions from her, he shrugs. "Well, the Orlesians weren't paying a short visit, by any means."

"It's not just that." Her face looks old and tired in this light, aged beyond her years. "Part of me feels like we have earned some _rest_. I know we can't, but I sometimes want to. But then I don't know what to do with myself when we're not on the road."

He knows what she means, has known it since he was even younger than she is now, and long given up trying to mend this feeling out of his body; there is little to be done for those who have lead this kind of existence for a longer period of time, who have made it part of themselves.

"Such is the life of a general, Warden," he says. "You fight for the still hours but your job, your purpose, is war."

She grimaces, half amused, half horrified. "How very cheery you are."

"I was not aware my task was to be cheery." He feels his lips curl into a sarcastic grin. "You have chosen poorly if that is case."

And at that, Elissa chuckles. It's a novelty to him, amusing people. He used to make Maric laugh, sometimes Rowan and on rare occasions Celia, but that was in another life; to see the Commander's face soften in amusement is very unfamiliar and oddly gratifying.

"Why did you lie to the Orlesians?" Loghain asks as Elissa puts down her cup and makes a move as if to walk out of the room.

"About the Archdemon?"

"About the blood."

"Oh." She has already gotten to her feet and is on her way; when she looks over her shoulder at Loghain, her gaze is already half-way out of the room. "I hardly think they need to know everything."

Loghain nods. He had told Howe to "dispose of the Wardens". That had been his exact order in Denerim as the caught Orlesian had been dragged before him. Knowing Howe, this probably meant he sold the blood supply on the black market as Howe had been incapable of doing clean, quick cuts – something that had also been his downfall. To see Riordan alive at the Landsmeet hadn't been the greatest surprise that day, to say the least.

"It was a lie that gave me an advantage."

"Yes." Elissa smiles. "It was, as it happens."

"Thank you," he says, pushing back the last remains of anger.

"Are you as hungry as I am?" she asks suddenly. "I was going to see if we can have some food conjured up from the kitchen. There are still things I wish to discuss with you, if you don't mind?" Not waiting for a response, she continues. "My mind works better when I'm full. We can plan for our departure from Denerim while we eat. I need your help with quite a few decisions."

For a second Loghain considers the offer. He thinks of watery ale and potato stew at the filthy inn, served by the inn's equally filthy cook and the other guests there, usually limited to a group of toothless beggars and a handful of prostitutes.

"I won't object to that," he says.

With the nagging sensation of having thoughts he can't quite reach, and the fleeting irritation at the recent plans and decisions, he follows his Commander's lead as she walks deeper into the estate.

.

.

There ought to be a whole philosophy, he thinks, on living in exile in your own country.

A philosophy outlining how to go about it, what to do with the time suddenly on his hands and the many, many things one must avoid, being altogether exiled from one's former existence.

Loghain has entirely too much time to spare, lately. That, in combination with having to remain largely hidden until things calm down make for an almost _unbearably_ dull situation.

Forenoons and afternoons alike he paces the room, reads, tries to devote a couple of hours to the self-forgetting quiet of work: going over the Warden documents in his possession, the maps he has been handed by Elissa and the tomes of books he has managed to have sent to his quarters via Anora's messenger. He uses all contacts he might still have in order to get an overview of the situation in the city, he studies the road maps of Ferelden like he doesn't already know their contours by heart; sometimes he draws his own, a habit so familiar to him that it has almost lost its soothing purpose.

He wants to move, be in _motion_ , use his body. Even as a teyrn Loghain would practice with the soldiers as often as possible; he enjoyed duelling and training them, participate in their silly competitions and bets. Other generals he has met over the years claim it's the farmer in him, the fear of losing the mastery over his body, and he gives them right; he is fighting hard against becoming a fat, chair-bound weakling in the war room, useless for anything besides scribbling figures on a sheet of paper.

These small quarters allow no such thing as physical exercise, however, so he sits in his sofa long into the nights, waiting for an exhaustion heavy enough to bring him to sleep.

At least tonight he has a visitor.

A grim-sounding, heavily clad visitor who all but threads into his chambers like a ghost or a smooth feline, without making any unnecessary sounds.

"This is an unwise move," Cauthrien mutters as she removes the hood from her face and tosses the cloak over a chair. "You have good reason, I hope."

Loghain nods, momentarily turning his back on her to close the door and almost regretting this visit altogether. Cauthrien is not just anyone. She is pressed into the shape of a daughter in his mind, a silent shadow of a time _before,_ because Cauthrien is hard without being cruel, her ideals still burning in all she does. He knows she is as loyal as he could ever demand of somebody, far more than he even wishes. But it serves its purpose now, he realises, turning to her again.

"I want you to do something for me, Cauthrien."

And for a second he thinks she will refuse, that her sense of duty is stronger than her sense of whatever twisted loyalty he has demanded of her in recent months, but then, as she groans and shakes her head in disbelief but still doesn't leave, he knows he has her support.

" _One_ favour." Her mouth is a thin line. "That is all."

One favour.

After the past year, one favour is one more than he can ask for without wreaking their roles apart, without destroying any trace of intimate familiarity; whatever she does now he has set in motion a new route for them and will pay for that with the loss of her friendship. He knows this with a dull certainty.

"Do you intend to detail this any further?" she asks, harshly, when he has been silent for a long time.

Loghain looks at her one last time before he walks up to the small desk next to his bed. The letter on top of his pile of books is sufficiently detailed and perfectly bland, not even his daughter will find any fault with its reasonable request.

"Deliver this letter to Anora," he says, placing a rolled-up parchment in her hand.

Cauthrien nods, eventually. She gets to her feet, the letter like a beacon between them.

"As you command then."

* * *

 


	4. Ring out the thousand wars of old

It's not that she's sentimental.

Looking up momentarily from the enormous pile of debris on display all over the floor as well as on her bed, Elissa decides that she definitely is _not_ sentimental. But for over a year now she – and later all of her companions – have gathered weapons, gold, treasures and various inexplicable items all across Ferelden and letting go of them is, she learns, more difficult than expected. She had held on to everything after Ostagar, driving Alistair mad with the stuffed packs that did, however, land them with enough gold after a while to never have to worry about the costs for allowing the most skilled smiths in Denerim repair their armour and weapons.

Here, in her brother's estate, it feels less important.

She has already sold everything that is valuable enough, putting the money away for the Order. What is left is an assorted heap of things that carry no apparent usefulness to anyone, save perhaps a scholar of history who would like to write a book on how the Hero of Ferelden beat the Archdemon and lived. Grimacing at the mere thought, Elissa reaches for a mouldy tome – _The Rose of Orlais_ – wondering where on earth she found that in the first place and why it's still doing in her possession. It's definitely one for the Throw Away pile in the corner.

The noise of the book landing on a pair of gauntlets in a decidedly questionable shape masks the sound of a servant arriving with a guest in tow. And then, just as Elissa uses her tunic to wipe something unrecognizeable and dried-in from the hilt of a dagger she can't remember having seen before, she turns around to meet the Queen of Ferelden.

"My lady," the servant girl curtseys.

"Warden," Anora says, holding out her hand in a greeting.

Elissa quickly gets to her feet, rubbing her palms against her trousers. She feels a bit like a child caught in the act, a child with dirty clothing and stained hands betraying any fanciful lie she might have constructed to hide her doings. It doesn't improve matters that the visitor in question is arguably the most imposing sight in Ferelden.

"Your Majesty," she clasps the outstretched hand as briefly and gently as she can without being downright impolite. There's an amused glint in Anora's eyes. "Is everything as it should be? I was not aware we were having visitors today."

"Oh, I apologise, Warden. I was invited by your brother, on rather short notice. We spoke last night at the Palace."

"Ah, I see."

"You are packing," the Queen observes, looking around. "I came to tell your brother that I will personally see to your supply of food and other necessities before departure tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Elissa gestures towards the only chair in the room that doesn't currently suffer under the weight of her unpacked belongings, but Anora shakes her head, waving her hand dismissively.

"I will not disturb you for very long." She pauses. "I wanted to thank you, on my father's behalf. I suspect he has not done so himself?"

"No, not exactly. Though there is little reason he should."

There's a private little smile on the Queen's lips at Elissa's answer, a knowing look in her eyes. She's a daughter, Elissa realises; she is a powerful monarch and a cunning politician and beneath it all she is a daughter who wants to protect the man who is her father. She has taken the risk of angering the Orlesian Wardens over the past weeks, a risk of disrupting the non-political nature of the order, interfering on Loghain's behalf. Elissa wonders if she feels guilt for the turmoil at the Landsmeet. For all her own _political mind_ – that her mother would both curse and praise, often at the same time - she is uncertain if she could have endangered her own parents, had they been alive. But then again, she reminds herself, she was never in a situation quite as desperate as the one mere months ago.

She observes the Queen, who returns her gaze.

"Regardless, I wish to let you know that I am very grateful that you have allowed my father a second chance to be the man I remember," she says.

Elissa puts a discarded crossbow on the Throw Away pile. "There were very few altruistic motives behind it, I'm afraid."

"Oh, of course, Warden." Anora smiles briefly. "Even so, you looked past his crimes and showed him mercy."

"I...yes." Elissa remembers the conversations they've had on the topic, remembers the last one: _your_ _mercy is to leave me in the fire_. She glances at the floor, as though the mess there holds answers yet unknown to her. To them all. "He will be a strong asset in the years to come."

"It might do him good to have a cause," Anora adds. "My father _is_ an idealist. Even if you most likely cannot believe me."

Not knowing what to say, Elissa persists in her smiling. And her guest seems to consider the quick meeting over because she moves to the door, after pressing Elissa's hand once more.

"I do hope that it will not be a lengthened stay in Orlais," she says. "Unfortunately it does not lie with me to decide."

"I will do my best, Your Majesty."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that."

There's a note in the air after the Queen has left. A tone, a low but persuasive touch of something Elissa can't discern. Perhaps it's worry, she thinks, as she looks at her packs and once again is struck by the realisation that she will be leaving Ferelden for Orlais within weeks. That she, who has never once been outside her nation's borders will, in all things but the exact title, be serving as a diplomat in a foreign court. Her father would be proud. Her mother would have that furrowed brow she wore for most the the last year of her life, her voice calm but her words carrying a scent of masked _doubt_.

Sighing, Elissa decides that she sooner she will finish this, the sooner she can find some more pleasurable distraction in her brother's home.

**.**

**.  
**

That same evening, they say their goodbyes.

There is more to it than she expected, removing the others from her heart, releasing them from her back and her mind. Oghren who has left the city to go find the woman Elissa reluctantly had helped him track down, once. Sten who has sailed, long ago now and she expects no letters. Shale whose freedom of mind still is a big uncertainty because what does one do with a mind that is free to live when the shell is only built for death. Wynne who will stay in Denerim, made advisor to King Alistair himself. Zevran who has offered to be her personal assassin, which sounds absolutely bloody _ridiculous_ until she thinks about Orlesians and Orlesian court and a language she only _barely_ grasps even after hour upon hour of tutoring in Highever. _You must learn the language of the oppressors, child,_ her tutor would say, making it sound like a threat. She is glad Zevran is coming with her.

But they will never again be travelling together, all of them, and time will quietly erase them all. It's an odd feeling. She has no room for it so it strays, jarringly, in her thoughts and around the rooms in the soon to be emptied estate.

Leliana is the last one to offer her farewells and she does so in private.

"Now we part ways, my Warden," she says, her voice quiet.

"We do," Elissa agrees, wondering when she let Leliana _in_ like that, granting her the power to make Elissa feel transparent.

"I will _miss_ you."

"You... could come?" she offers. It is, she realises, the first time she has even asked and Leliana knows that, of course, because she smiles wistfully.

"No, I couldn't." And she _couldn't_ , and it is not because of the expedition Leliana will lead, not because of Andraste's holy ashes or the temple that needs to be excavated and handled properly and Elissa knows that, even if she has never known what to call _this_ , the fluttering, shifting thing between them.

Then Leliana kisses her - properly on the mouth, her fingers buried in Elissa's hair, her tongue parting Elissa's lips; the taste of her is thick and sweet like honey and ale behind momentarily closed eyes - and it's a goodbye, in every sense of the word.

Later, when Elissa is alone again and upstairs, the room slides a bit before her, the moonlit surfaces and the unfamiliar shapes of her packs becoming slippery as glass and she doesn't know if she is sad to go or thankful to be leaving.

But home, she has learned, is not a place. Home is a reason.

**.**

**.  
**

Winter is definitely in the air the following morning.

The frosted grass that met them as they first came outside has melted under a bleak winter sun, but it's not warm and Elissa freezes in her winter cloak, unused to the season after a long absence from it. They need to keep to the main roads during their journey, trying to find lodgings along the way. It's going to be many weeks yet before the Waking Sea is frozen over; she tells herself this bit again and again, an echoing prayer like a ghost around her huddled shape in the courtyard.

Since dawn, they have all been up, preparing the final things: swaddling the packs with leftover clothing, loading the wagons to the point of breaking, changing weapons at the last minute. Elissa walks around inspecting what will be their little caravan, consisting of Wardens, knights and a Teyrn who has, although not in her presence, been complaining about the lack of horses and carriages.

They have two wagons, which means four horses and that, Elissa has decided, is well enough. She throws the Highever shield in with the spare armour in passing, making her way across the field to reach the others, ahead of the crowd that has gathered to say goodbye.

The king and queen are both there, as are Eamon and Teagan and - for reasons unknown to Elissa – Ser Cauthrien, wearing a grim expression. Her arms are folded and she stands like Loghain beside her, a striking image of controlled anger directed at a seemingly invisible foe.

"Ah, there you are," Anora says when Elissa is close enough.

"Your Majesties," Elissa greets, carefully smiling at them both, but especially at Alistair who looks at her, his face having softened a bit since last they spoke. It ripples through her for a bit, the hints of that person she used to know, before he was pushed into his throne and started resenting her.

"Commander," he says, nodding. She's half-way into a remark about how nobody has appointed her anything yet, but that's when Cauthrien steps forward.

"At your service, Warden," Cauthrien says, in a tone that suggests, if only ever so subtly, that she isn't feeling _entirely_ servile. She turns to Fergus and bows. "Your Grace."

"Ser Cauthrien has been assigned the mission of accompany you, Warden," the Queen explains gracefully, her gaze fastened on Elissa. "She is, by my orders, temporarily liberated of all other duties and yours to employ as you see fit."

"Oh." Elissa can't hide her surprise.

"A wise choice, Your Majesty," Loghain comments dryly from behind Cauthrien who all but sneers at those words.

"Indeed. I have no reason to be anything than grateful," Fergus cuts in, since Elissa hasn't spoken yet. "Ser Cauthrien, we are honoured to have you."

There's a faintest trace of a smile on Cauthrien's face, Elissa notices, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, and then she slips back to stand among the knights again.

"Fare well," the Queen offers finally, standing beside her King who still is unable to look Elissa in the eyes and smile. She wonders if he even wishes her well.

**.**

**.  
**

After less than two days on the road, they fall back into routines that are so natural by now that Elissa can't help but feel that it's the last month that has been an anomaly in her life, despite having spent well over twenty years living indoors with proper meals and soft pillows. As soon as they leave most larger settlements behind, she recovers the sense for it, the unspoken language of travelling and, even more urgently, for battle.

When they've approached Dragon's Peak, at the foot of the mountain pass where they will continue walking in the morning, they are slipping back into other habits as well, being attacked by a loud horde of darkspawn. It's a simple enough battle for a group as well accustomed to this particular enemy as they are by now, and they manage without any severe injuries. Elissa still suggests to Fergus that this will be their camp for the night and her brother nods, accepting it without further ado.

"Find leeward spots for the tents and keep the fires burning!" Fergus shouts to his men who are still occupied with tending to their shallow wounds and battered armour. "We rest later!"

Elissa gestures to the knights to assist and soon the burned-down ground around the mountain has transformed into a camp that resembles all other camps she has seen. She unfasten the buckles of her armour as she disarms and then she sits down, for the first time in what feels like forever, beside her brother.

"You look the part," she says, leaning her head in her hands and gazing out over the field of soldiers and tents.

Fergus makes a sound that is stuck half-way between a chuckle and a scoff and very much an exasperated big-brother thing, carrying a scent of childhood.

"I always thought the roles would be reversed," he says eventually, taking off his gauntlets and stretching his fingers in front of him. Elissa remembers how their father, even in his younger years, would complain about pain in his joints sometimes, saying it was a nuisance during the long, cold winters. The thought hits her with a sudden jolt of affection for Fergus.

"Oh, you mean you thought you would slay an Archdemon?" she smiles at him. "Have I showed you the scar today?"

Fergus' own smile is genuine, but tired. He looks like he hasn't slept enough and worried too much and Elissa wants to reach out and stroke him over the messy hair, soothingly, because Fergus is _good_ and kind and she may be several years younger but she has always wanted to protect him against all evil. They are silent together for a while, scrubbing their armour and weapons.

"Father would have made you his heir if mother had allowed it," Fergus says as he puts down his sword on the ground; it's shimmering in the dusk of the early evening that surrounds them now. "And she would have, eventually."

"Perhaps." Elissa feels a throbbing ache in her temples, spreading to her forehead as she squints her eyes to see better. It's getting cold where they are, she looks longingly at the fireplaces ahead of them. "Although that hardly matters now."

"It would have been the better choice," he shrugs, trying to seem careless.

"Now, where did this lack of confidence come from all of a sudden?" Elissa gently bumps her shoulder against his, a gesture mimicking the games he used to entertain her with to make her behave during long hours in the great hall, being well-raised noble children. They would sit side by side, straight-backed and smiling while trying to fell each other from the chairs. She always lost, giggling too hard under her breath to maintain her balance. "You are a _Cousland_."

"Yeah." Fergus exhales loudly. "I am, I know."

And Elissa nods, for a moment she is too, even if it's only to her brother and only in parts, her name a fractured shadow that will fade bleakly into the family portraits and tapestries full of proud names derived from generations of northern Fereldans. Hers will be a broken line, a gash in time. Something inside her, something unacknowledged and brittle, makes a noise at that.

"Isn't it odd?" he asks, a while later.

"What is?"

"To have _him_ under your command?" he nods towards Loghain who is glowering at the large pots over the fire, stirring in silence while being watched by a handful of bemused soldiers. He is probably convinced they will be poisoned by Orlesians if anyone less cunning than himself gets close to the food, Elissa thinks, feeling a jolt of odd and twisted affection for him, too.

"It's... _yes_ ," she admits because this is her brother after all. "But I'm getting used to it. I think. He's... a good man to have on your side."

"I can imagine." Fergus flicks a great deal of dry earth and grass from his breastplate that glitters in the tufts of pale, dying grass in front of them. They have burned this area entirely; whether it's because of darkspawn ruining the land or people ruining the darkspawn is impossible to tell. And the damage is constant regardless of source. "It must be almost like having King Maric fighting at your back."

"Father always spoke highly of Loghain's skills as a general."

"He did," Fergus agrees. "He would also say that the Teyrn of Gwaren was the most frustratingly stubborn, arrogant man he had ever met."

She smiles. "He was correct on both accounts, I think."

"You should get along just fine then," Fergus flashes a toothy grin her way. "Birds of a feather."

"Very funny."

Elissa looks at her general, hunched in front of the fire with the faintly glowing blade by his side. He had been visibly unsettled by the conversation with the Orlesians, far more so than Elissa has ever seen him, and by the time they were gone his temper had grown even hotter, cracked wide open. It was an odd thing, seeing him like that and even odder to find that she worries slightly about it. She worries about her companions, naturally, but there is something else there, reserved for him. It's because he seems to care so little himself, perhaps. Because she fools herself into thinking she can care instead of him, _for_ him.

After the meal – a stew of boar and onions that tastes much better than she expected – they clean up and retreat to their own areas, as far as practicable. Elissa selfishly claims a tent near a fire as her own; Shirei and Hawise put down their packs next to it as well and then the issue of sharing is solved, at least for tonight.

Trying to rub sleep from her dry eyes, Elissa half-runs to catch up with Loghain who is on his way back from the woods, out of his armour and unarmed; he always walks infernally fast, she is by no means ill used to walking, but she struggles to keep neck and neck with him. He turns his head as she calls out his name.

"You will take the first watch with me," she announces. "Ser Damien and Hawise will relieve us."

Loghain nods, and momentarily he looks like he almost fits into the familiar pattern of days and nights exactly like this one. As though nothing has happened in the time between. Everything has, she knows with perfect clarity, everything has changed and not only because they share a secret as dark as the nigh sky.

Elissa hesitates, though not for long, then she lets the tone of her voice shift and become that of a friend. "Am I out of my mind to actually have missed this?"

He looks up, straight at her, and shrugs. "It's a simple enough life."

"It is." They reach the camp again; Loghain stows his pack into the tent he shares with Cauthrien. Elissa sinks down on the logs of wood surrounding the warm, soothing flames and closes her eyes, tilting her head back. Above their heads the stars are out, glowing and breathing their star-breaths, very far away. "I know how to _do_ this."

She can hear the soft thuds of boots and scent the faint trace of darkspawn blood in him that beats in her own body, like a shared pulse, as he sits down opposite her.

"You will learn the rest, too," he says.

"You think so, do you?" Elissa opens her eyes, to see Dog put his head in Loghain's lap, wagging his short tail so fervently he rocks back and forth.

"I know it for a fact."

He does, she supposes.

Shifting her shoulders back and forth, trying to roll the ache away from them after what seems like a permanent state of carrying heavy things, Elissa struggles to find a position that allows her any comfort. She has longed for the road but her body hasn't, apparently. It must be all the idle time spent in proper beds, she thinks, vaguely concerned. Loghain observes her, his gaze flickering between the fire and her face, while scratching Dog behind his ears.

"So, what do you think?" She straightens her back, wishing for something to eat. It usually keeps her spirit up and her desire to sleep under control.

"About what?"

"The Wardens." She stifles a yawn, burying the heels of her boots in the ground and pulling up the cloak of her hood. It shouldn't be possible to feel so tired in this cold.

"Ah." Loghain sighs, as though she's asking him if he likes to have his limbs torn off for pleasure. "They are very Orlesian."

Despite the serious expression in his face, she smiles at that. "My guess is that they think _we_ are very Fereldan."

"Yes, we speak to commoners and women aren't painted as bloody dolls," he retorts, sharply.

Elissa looks into the fire without speaking. She has been raised to hate the Orlesian occupation and, of course, to take pride in its abrupt destruction but that is not the same as having lived through it. It was clear in her parents' eyes sometimes, and it's clear in the way the memory of it burns in Loghain, colours his voice and fills the empty spaces in his language, those cracks between what he says and what he will never admit.

"You have seen how the casteless dwarfs live, I assume," he asks rhetorically when she has been silent for a long time. She nods, still remembering the overwhelming stench of filth and death down there, deep under the surface. "That is how the Orlesians treated Fereldan commoners. Like _cattle_."

Not for the first time since she was forced out of it, her secluded upbringing in the castle of Highever feels like a disadvantage. She wants to say something, but doesn't know what.

"You said that Orlesian Wardens almost got Maric killed?" she asks eventually, when Loghain's face is calmer and his hands rest against the log, fingers drumming soundlessly against it.

"They did." He sneers.

"How? I don't think I have heard that story." She would have remembered it; even if history tutoring was far from her favourite occupation she drank all the stories of kings and rebel like sweet nectar, tucked it in at the back of her mind, to always keep it at hand, always running her fingers over the narrow paths of truth and make-believe.

And Loghain tells her. In words that would never have been allowed in the castle of Highever and with a voice that shivers softly between bitterness and darkness, he tells her the story of King Maric and Orlais, and the Circle and the few bits she has heard before join the ones he offers until she thinks she understands.

Through the light and the grey smoke from the flames she observes him.

"Thank you," she says, meaning it.

"Yes, that was my cautionary tale of the evening."

Elissa smiles quickly and hesitantly. One never knows with his sarcasm; at times it darts inwardly, pushing deep into what could be self-contempt, at times it lashes out, sparing no one.

"I promise I will not have myself assassinated or Ferelden invaded," she says, only half-joking. "Not if I can help it."

Dog whines loudly at her words and Loghain looks away, a deep wrinkle visible on his forehead, before he fasten his gaze on her again. For a long time they just look at each other, not speaking. There is, however, nothing awkward about the silence. They merely allow time to pass.

Relaxing as it is, sitting there with him and Dog, it does nothing for her exhaustion. Thoughts are running through her brain, wrapping themselves around her and she searches for something to _talk_ about.

"My father once told me of Bann Dunn's youngest," she says eventually, not able to hide her yawn this time. Her cheeks almost creak with the weight of it. "He was headed for the Antivan coast to meet with a merchant, or so he said anyway. But the trade ship he had boarded came with so much Antivan wine that he passed out for several days. When he woke they had already left the harbour and he had to take another ship home from bloody Seheron."

Loghain snorts, his expression softening. "He likely had a few Antivan herbs, too."

"Oh, no doubt." Elissa grins.

"He must be your age?"

"Two years younger." Reclining, she crosses her legs on the uncomfortable log, glancing at her dog who sleeps at Loghain's feet. "Were you at the Landsmeet where he and his mother helped themselves to the Palace's wine cellar and knocked over the statue of Andraste during Arl Eamon's petition for the protection of the fishermen of Redcliffe or some such?"

At this Loghain laughs. It's a brief, low chuckle more than a guffaw but Elissa has never heard him sound _amused_ before, has almost started to consider it an impossibility but he nearly-laughs and she feels like she has solved an ancient mystery or cracked a piece of harshly protected runes; and most of all the sound of it trickles down her spine like a soft, warm rain. And the commonality in a simple conversation like this; those small signs of being familiar with the same world, sharing words and meanings, seemingly insignificant details making her blood sing a tune of quiet satisfaction. She has been unaware of how much she has missed _that_.

"Of course. It was one of the few Landsmeets worth remembering," Loghain says, "Eamon was sourly upset."

"Well. While I'm making promises, I hereby solemnly promise not to wake up in Seheron." Elissa says, thinking she might be able to keep herself awake until released from duty, after all.

**.**

**.  
**

Cauthrien is the first thing she sees when she rises the following morning.

Freezing and with bones hollowed by rest and hunger, still trying to shock the sleep out of her body by walking outside in the morning chill, Elissa is met by a largely empty camp where only the second watch and Cauthrien have awoken.

"Morning, Warden."

"Good morning, Ser."

Cauthrien gestures half-heartedly at the assorted food put up on a trunk temporarily serving as a table. There is a stern quality in her that Elissa finds herself drawn to, like she is drawn to the dark, wry humour in Zevran and the uncompromising intelligence in Loghain. Cauthrien fights fiercely, of that Elissa is certain. And she is proud. Whatever took place between the two of them right before Landsmeet upset some sort of scale; she isn't sure if Cauthrien is thankful Elissa listened to her plea or embarrassed that she was forced to plead in the first place. Likely a bit of both.

"The night watch was uneventful?"

Elissa nods. "Very."

"You spent the night tucked in between two Orlesians and lived to tell the tale," Cauthrien says, sounding so much like Loghain it is slightly eerie. "But perhaps that does not count as an event for a Warden."

"So, you will accompany Loghain when he recruits?" Elissa ask to have something mildly polite to say. She fills her plate with more salted meat and grabs a handful of cheese and another two slices of bread to add to the ones she's already helped herself to. Cauthrien looks vaguely disgusted.

"There are others who want to eat," she comments, icily. "And _what_ are you talking about?"

"Recruiting," Elissa repeats. "You will be going with Loghain, no?"

"Hardly," Cauthrien says, shaking her head as well, as if she thinks Elissa is slow to grasp the obvious. "My orders are nothing of the sort."

"But-"

"I am to be your very own nursemaid in Orlais," she clarifies and her voice drops to a point that is below cold, that almost becomes _fire_.

"The Queen would not... oh, Andraste's flaming _sword_."

And something clicks darkly in Elissa's head at that. An understanding, framed by the knowledge of how this understanding was reached. She chews furiously at her bread, thinking. The irritation in Cauthrien seems to disappear as she watches the reaction to her revelation; when their eyes meet again it's an almost sympathetic woman who looks at Elissa.

"I am fairly certain the Queen did not think of this plan herself, no," Cauthrien says, downing her goblet of water.

"Oh. _Oh_. He is the most _infuriating_ -"

Elissa is abruptly interrupted when there is a noise rising from the still-quiet row of tents and carriages ahead of them – a noise of shouted orders and confusion; she can discern Fergus voice among those who screams the loudest and a chill runs along her spine.

"Maker's _breath_ ," Cauthrien hisses, throwing her plate on the ground and launching after her sword.

"We're being attacked!" someone barks at them. "The teyrn is badly wounded!"

* * *

 


	5. I know the darkness of the roads

_I know the darkness of the roads_

_It floods my liver_

_pollutes my breath_

_yet I still witness the white dawning_

**Night Travel - Esther G. Belin** __  
  
.  


* * *

Loghain immediately regrets going to sleep at all when he wakes up in a screeching turmoil of running soldiers and barked orders. The cloth of his tent is being torn apart by a few well-placed arrows of fire as he scrambles to his feet, grabbing his blade and shield before rushing outside.

The camp is under attack.

A large number of what appears to be assassins are making their way down the mountain pass and running from the edges of the forests, which means their guards have failed at their seemingly simple task to defend the borders of their camp. He feels a surge of anger at the mere thought, struggling to get a decent overview of the battle. In the distance, far ahead to the right he can hear the unmistakable sounds of large-scale battle and to the left, closer to the mountains, there are scattered soldiers fighting man to man.

Regretting the lack of armour, Loghain proceeds into the chaos unfolding before his eyes. He can see Cauthrien and three men take on a duellist who is accompanied with what must be bandits. They had known, of course, that they were bound to run into all sorts of outlaws but assumed the size – and imposing individuals for those inspecting them closely - of their party would act as a deterrent.

A foolish thought, of course.

He is almost thrown to the ground when the Orlesian mage casts a protective glyph around him as he passes her; his angry expression makes her frown back at him. Then he forgets to be ungrateful as a greatsword clashes against the magical wall and he - instead of being stabbed in the side - can behead a ragged bandit. It's difficult to judge the nature of the attackers since they're a scattered group.

His commander, he notices, is duelling a masked man; like most of them, she's wearing no protection save a pair of gauntlets and a breastplate.

"Loghain!" she cries out. "My brother!"

When Loghain looks around he sees a large shape a bit further away, near the brink of the woods; the contours of the teyrn of Highever remain motionless, however, and Loghain looks at Elissa who, with a sound in between grief and rage, finally plunges her blade in the attacker's throat.

Loghain reaches the fallen man, kneeling beside him, one hand searching for heartbeats and a pulse while the other loosens the shirt around his throat. It's a sweeping move, all of it written down within him with such force that he no longer have to think about what he does – it was Rowan who taught him, long ago, to apply a smidgen of knowledge of medicine to what they did on the battlefield. She would quickly examine an injured soldier, and then they'd decide whether it was worth the cost of bandages and time to patch him up. They tended only to the ones who could fight and left the others. It was a efficient way of managing a moving army, he found.

"I..." Fergus gasps, falling silent again and grimacing.

"Stay calm." Loghain says, rummaging through the dead attacker's corpse in search of bandages. He can tell the wounds – one in his abdomen, another one in is side – are deep and severe, in all likelihood deadly without a healer's care.

"It's... bad."

"It is," Loghain confirms, although he is uncertain it is a question. Not finding anything of use on the corpse, he puts one hand on Fergus' chest to keep him down while he uses the tip of his blade to make a tear and then rips off the front of the tunic. It's met with a groan but not much else, and Loghain can dress the most severe stab wound without problem. "Likely fatal."

"Such an... optimist."

Sharing his sister's grim humour and bravery, apparently, Fergus attempts a smile. Loghain finds it strangely sympathetic.

"I find brutal honesty works better," he mutters, attempting a bandage over the second injury as well, but finds that the little cloth he has left to use is already too drenched in blood.

"Look out!" Elissa's voice again and just as Loghain glances sideways he spots another man coming at them, followed by two archers wearing masks. And then there's just one archer left on his feet as Cauthrien, without any particular refinement to her move, cuts the second one down. She looks at Loghain with her face bloodied and her mouth a thin, displeased line. They have failed both each other and their army, such as it is. And he knows nobody apart from himself who loathes failure as intensely as the woman he once appointed the commander of Maric's own elite guards.

"I sent the knights after the escaping attackers," she says, hurriedly, while her blade misses the first archer who launches an arrow straight into her shield. The second attempt is successful and exhaling, she can continue with more ease. "The Orlesians are held up further down the road."

"Do you have an idea of the attackers?" Loghain stands up. "Bandits and assassins?"

Cauthrien nods. "It appears so. Perhaps they have teamed up. They seem to have entered our camp in at least three different fractions."

"How many?"

"Fifty men?" she shrugs apologetically. "It is difficult to say."

"Keep at least a couple of the bastards alive," Elissa commands, running towards them. "I want to know who they are."

"Got it, Commander." Cauthrien nods and takes off again.

Loghain looks down at Fergus who is growing paler, his face moist with sweat and blood that flows from a wound on his cheek that looks like the work of a poisoned dagger. It seems a wasteful mission to bring him to safety, or even to guard him here, until the mage can reach them. Unhealed, he will perish the moment someone moves him, of that Loghain is certain.

" _Blast_ ," Elissa says under her breath as she sinks down to the ground beside them. "Fergus?"

"He is still alive," Loghain says in Fergus' place since the other man has closed his eyes.

"Fergus, I will be back." She speaks so softly and with such an effort that Loghain feels his stomach churn a bit. Then she turns around to look at him. "I am looking for Shirei. You will stay with him."

"Although he breathes, your brother is seriously wounded," Loghain says, trying to keep his voice down. "Are you certain you do not wish to stay here and let me go find the mage?"

"I... yes." her voice fades momentarily. "I wouldn't have a clear head."

"Elissa-"

" _Please._ " Catching herself as the words that come out of her mouth shiver with held-back emotions, she averts her eyes. "Do as I command."

And after stooping over her brother and placing a kiss on his forehead, she is gone again.

.

.

The battle goes on for most of the forenoon.

The Commander returns from the forest, bloodied but intact and with the Antivan limply hanging on to her, his arm slung around her for support. Judging by his face and the soaked leather armour he must have slept in, he is a breath away from slipping over the edge separating the living from the dead.

"He needs a healer," Elissa says, unnecessarily.

"She's with your brother," Loghain informs her. He has returned from patrolling the mountain passages aided by Hedin and Jenner and aside from a stray bandit that Jenner promptly finished they have encountered no more enemies. "I ordered Hawise and one of the guards to help her take care of the wounded."

With the assistance of the Orlesian mage, Loghain had managed to get the teyrn of Higever off the battlefield and safely tucked into a bedroll. He had breathed but not spoken and not opened his eyes.

Their victory is a hollow one, the stench of ashes and blood rising like darkspawn from the very ground.

"Good. I sent Cauthrien to rile up the soldiers." She stops for a short while to catch her breath and readjust the grip around the elf's slender waist. "I saved the knights for you."

And Loghain can't help but smile darkly at that.

.

.

Around the fires in the middle of their temporary home, they gather eventually one after another, counting their losses and accounting for the hard-won victories. Loghain sits among the Wardens, rolling up the sleeves of his tunic to tend to a wound on his upper arm when Cauthrien arrives with Elissa, who has a face that is stern and controlled like steel and a gaze that seems to pierce through them.

At least they make use of the camp already set up the previous night. This is the small mercy of being overwhelmed in your own field, Loghain knows, that once you have defeated the intruders, you have things already settled, the paths cleared. The mage works hard; he can see the strength seeping out of her steadily, exhaustion hanging like a grey cloud over her head as the soldiers calls out for her. Elissa notices the same thing, her voice breaking the low chatter and stifled sounds of pain colouring the camp.

"Most of you will be fine with some rest and a poultice," she says, sharply. "So let us save our healer's resources for those who truly need it."

Shirei sends the commander a grateful look. The knights, on the other hand, exchange the kind of looks Loghain knows well and has come to despise – the never-ending expectations of those who feel entitled to the best and will not accept actually having to prove themselves worthy of anything.

"What happened today will not happen again!" Elissa continues, slowly pacing around in a circle, to be able to look at them all. Even the complaining men straightens a bit as her gaze falls upon them, their slack mouths taut with reluctant respect and the faintest hint of shame. "We lost three soldiers. Three good men. The teyrn is badly wounded and unconscious. Zevran, the Wardens' guard, was nearly killed. Nothing excuses that."

"Commander," a knight – Loghain thinks he remembers someone saying that his name is Walter – drops to his knees, bowing properly. "We were unable to foresee this attack. Our guards were in the right places, but the intruders were too many."

Loghain had not been mincing his words previously, nor had he allowed for any complaints: he had asked the knights to kindly inform him how they could serve the teyrn and the Warden Commander better than any random group of battered farmers in hiding. And reminded them of how deeply unpleasant it is to wake up to burning arrows sweeping past your head. Somewhere in the back of his head, he heard Maric chuckle darkly, as the knights fell to their knees and assured Loghain in no small words that they would lay down their lives in order to see this mission through. _You rule through fear,_ Maric had once said, drunk and sentimental. _Because you do not think they would follow you otherwise._

What Elissa thinks about her ability to inspire loyalty he does not know, but her presence is overwhelming within the small army they have at their disposal. She is the Hero of Ferelden and they have disappointed her.

"I am aware of the situation. I want no apologies." She raises her hand, like she's leading them into war all over again. Which, Loghain thinks, she might very well be doing. They have seen nothing of the countryside yet. If there are rebel armies as leftovers from the civil war, they are going to hide there. "What I want is that you – the _lot_ of you – do your best. The Blight may be over, but the war is not. I have no use for sloppy, cocky men. I have no use for soldiers who cannot even keep us safe while we rest."

"I'm s-" the knight coughs. "Understood, Commander."

"Bring me the prisoners," she says, in a different tone altogether.

"Yes, ser." The knight bows again. "Immediately, ser."

Elissa looks at Loghain across the scene, signalling with no more than a little tilt of her head that she wishes to be assisted. He walks up to her as the prisoners are dragged in front of them, both of them young men, both of them tightly bound hand and foot; the soldiers on their sides holding them upright.

"You may leave," Elissa says to the soldiers as she and Loghain take over the leashes of the prisoners. The Commander steps forward, grabbing hold of the stained shirt collar of one of the them. It's a red-haired man, with freckled skin and a long scar along his cheek. He stares defiantly straight ahead, not meeting her gaze.

"So," she says, calmly. "Who are you and what do you want?"

Loghain observes the man – barely more than a boy, when he looks close enough – and his blank expression that doesn't shift, not even when Elissa leans closer, riveting her eyes upon him.

"Who sent you?"

No answer.

"Who sent you?" Elissa asks again, already impatient. Torture seems to be one those things she doesn't have a command of. Neither does Loghain, incidentally; he is too brusque to bother and not sadistic enough to _enjoy_ the pain of others, at any rate.

There is an impenetrable silence around them.

Elissa tightens her grip around the man's throat, causing him to choke " _Talk_."

"There... is n-nothing to – say."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Y-yes."

"Very well," she says, releasing the man who falls roughly to the ground, landing on his face. Loghain picks him up again, to prevent an unlikely escape; the boy coughs, blood dripping from his nose. And Elissa proceeds to the man Loghain holds on to with his other hand. He lets him go with a faint sneer. This man is older than the redhead and doesn't look entirely Fereldan with his dark skin and deep, brown eyes.

"You see, we are not your friends," Elissa says, grabbing the man by his hair and pulling him closer. "We care very little about your life. The only purpose for your continued existence, as I see it, is if you chose to give me the answers I need."

"You... will not kill us," the redhead interjects, apparently speaking to his comrade. "Don't listen to her."

"Be _silent_ ," Loghain warns, pushing the man to the ground again, causing him to land on his back this time.

Elissa watches the display together with the dark-haired prisoner who has started to look less inclined to put up any form of resistance.

"Your friend is wrong, unfortunately," she says. "About not killing you, that is. I have no problem with that, you see. When people send assassins after me or people I care about, I tend to solve the matters with violence."

Loghain stifles an inappropriately amused snort.

"Will _you_ tell me what I want to know?" The question echoes against the stiff silence of the crowd.

Elissa allows a few moments of consideration.

As the prisoner shakes his head, she gazes up, out over the people who have gathered – more and more of them, of course, as every execution demands its drooling mob - and back at Loghain before she releases the grip of the man and lets him fall to the ground; he lands abruptly on his side with a muffled sound of pain.

She looks at Loghain through thin veils of history and time when she lifts the sword off her back; that ruthless, bare pain in her eyes, the kind that hardens inwards.

"Then you are useless," she says to the prisoner.

And the man on the ground says nothing as she drives her sword through his chest; the few soldiers that surround them are quiet too, stone-faced and calm. She wipes away the blood with a small, nearly invisible grimace that Loghain recognises, too, because it is his own.

"Keep this one alive, Commander?" he asks loudly, putting his boot against the squirming prisoner's chest.

"Yes." Clearing her throat she takes a last look at the man in question, who is flat on his back on the grass, and look decidedly paler than before. "Zevran will make him talk, I'm sure."

Elissa looks back at Loghain one last time before walking away, sheathing her sword without another word.

.

**.**

They are all aware of the slightest move around them tonight, aware of every rustle of leaves and of each shadow cropping up behind them.

Loghain has sent the knights with Cauthrien to patrol the passages ahead and the Wardens are spread out, ordered to cover every possible path and direction. During the day they have moved a little further, securing the camp somewhat by having the impenetrable side of the mountain behind them.

Three soldiers dead and two men wounded, both badly at that.

It's not _acceptable_. They are too skilled, much too experienced for these kinds of mistakes.

He allows himself a moment of frustration with the illogical, almost unfathomable way of warfare during a Blight and after it. He didn't know this. He could not even have guessed – not even if someone had told him about darkspawn and Archdemons and forced him to believe it – could he have suspected that a Blight would so thoroughly upset the brutal logic that war itself creates.

The land is torn apart, all but annihilated; it resembles the last time he saw it like that and yet nothing is the same. People have behaved the way people behave, facing war, but war has not. All over the countryside there are corpses and carrion piling up inside houses and on the roads, cattle lying half-eaten, half-decayed in the fields. There was no time to flee, not for most. Darkspawn pop up from underground and civil war drove people to fight each other.

Loghain feels hollow thinking about _that_. But he is making up excuses. This situation could have arisen at any time and he should have seen it.

As he finishes his supper, he realises Elissa is still with the wounded, likely berating herself – or him – for what happened and worrying herself useless. He fills a bowl brimful with today's bland stew of turnip and beets and walks up to the middle of camp. This is the spot where they have put up two canvas over poles in the ground and another two canvases on the sides, serving as wind shields: a temporary healing station where the mage and some assisting soldiers have tended to everybody for hours.

The elf is sleeping in the bedroll near the farthest fire, his face pale but seemingly relaxed; Teyrn Cousland is resting in the middle, warmed by fires on both sides. Elissa sits by his side, unmoving and stern. She looks very tired.

"Here." Loghain holds the bowl under her nose. "Eat."

"Oh." She frowns, but takes the food and puts it down on the chest serving as bedside table for her brother. "Thank you."

Cauthrien used to do this, all the time after Ostagar, that hurt expression never once leaving her face and her voice tasting of an irritation he refused to let her express. But no matter how she did feel about him, she used to bring him food. Sometimes brandy, or poultices but usually just food. No general or commander can get by on an empty stomach, she'd say and slam a plate down in front of him before leaving – a gesture as uncomplicated and matter of factly as herself. The unwritten chain of command in an army, the ever present mission to make certain your superiors are fit to give orders and your inferiors ready to accept them. And the silent implications of this, darkened beyond language.

"The camp is surrounded by guards," he says, eventually. "We've got men and women covering all the roads."

"Good," Elissa answers absent-mindedly and rises to her feet.

Loghain watches her in silence. She stands, wincing momentarily as she has to adjust her breastplate that seems to have expanded a size lately. It should be impossible given that his commander eats enough for two grown men at every meal, but the food seems to burn away inside her, lost in that dark undercurrent that makes them part of those they defeat.

"Shirei was here before," she says, when he is about to ask if there is anything else she needs before he leaves her alone. "She thinks he will recover."

Loghain nods, although it's a pointless move since Elissa looks straight ahead, keeping her gaze on her brother. He freezes a little in his cloak. There is a severity in the air lately; the nights are growing longer and colder and it gets dark in the middle of the afternoons.

"Are you planning on remaining here until he does?"

She sighs. "I don't know. I... _yes_. I think so."

The journey across Dragon's Peak will not be easy regardless of her decisions, but leaving this spot with two injured seems arguably as feeble a plan as walking into Orlais without a full army at your back. Once they are through the mountain pass, however, the road to the northern coast should be quite simple.

Not that they will take any risks after today.

"When were you going to have the decency to inform me that Cauthrien is coming with me to Orlais?" Elissa asks suddenly, as though she's pushing herself away from the thoughts of her brother. "Or did you not deem me capable of handling that information?"

"It was a necessary decision," Loghain responds curtly. He has no pressing need to explain himself further. This doesn't seem to be popular with his commander, though.

"Indeed?" she scoffs, narrowing her eyes as she glances at him. "Necessary? For whom?"

He snorts but says nothing. That is met with a frustrated groan from the woman by his side, who rakes a hand through her hair, unkempt and wild, hanging down over her shoulders. It is unusual. She is too practical for it, normally. He has no idea why he knows _that_ , but the notion is there within him somewhere, a stray observation surfacing.

"Not that I will pretend to have had many generals under my command, Loghain," she continues. "But surely generals are meant to discuss their plans with the commanders in charge?"

"If the commander is going to see reason, yes." He sneers, a gesture meant as much at himself as it is meant for her.

"Maker's _breath_." She doesn't look at him. "Do you know that you are a condescending bastard? I _trust_ you. I trust you to make decisions that are well considered and strategical and if you would just sodding _talk_ to me, I would listen to what you have to say."

"You would do well to remember the last time I served as a general," he says, looking at her and feeling, of all things, uncertain. He hadn't expected this. He has spent most of his life being a general – a _trusted_ general - and yet he has not expected this. "The king who promised to give heed to my advice-"

" _You_ would do well to remember that I am not Cailan," Elissa snaps. "Nor am I Maric."

Her voice, the notes in it and the way it lingers around them; it seems to shift through his own memories somewhat, separate and release them. There is a darkness in that, resembling the one in giving up.

"I know," Loghain says, wondering if he truly has, before now.

"You cannot be Maric's general any more." She is looking at him like she almost regrets speaking of it, one hand plucking at the strands of hair resting against the side of her face. Looking away again, she lowers her voice. "You told me once that it did not matter that he is dead. But it does."

Loghain doesn't know what to say to that; his hands are cold and he tries to hunch down in front of the fire to warm them. Elissa follows suit, slumping down on the ground, legs tucked in under her. Her gaze is warm.

And it _matters_.

With a move that is very far from being smooth, he sits down as well, ignoring the dull ache in his back and shoulders from the exertion earlier. Hopefully the potion he took before supper will take the edge off the pain soon, otherwise he might never get up from this position.

The Commander observes him with that blend of irritated worry and quiet acceptance she has adopted tonight.

"There's a rumour saying you made Ser John weep," she says, raising an eyebrow. She has brought the food with her as they moved to the fire and now she tastes a spoonful while Loghain shrugs, wondering how much of the afternoon's verbal battle he needs to narrate.

"He deserved all he got."

They had whimpered like spoiled, sodding brats, the lot of them. One excuse after the other, as expected.

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." Elissa looks faintly pleased, still chewing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "John is said to be a delicate flower who is afraid to get his hand bloodied."

"Yes. I have met kittens with more fighting spirit," Loghain concurs, dryly.

"See, this is why I like you." Putting down the bowl, Elissa grins; the expression on her face relaxes with the sign of amusement. "Even though you are a conceited, arrogant arse."

"For making the knights cry?" He frowns, genuinely confused.

"Yes. Definitely." She stretches out on the empty bedroll beside them suddenly, propped up on her elbow on her side, hands held up in front of the flames. "And for making me laugh. Even when things are... bad."

Loghain tries to catch her gaze but she has turned her head, peering over her shoulder to check on her brother who is still sleeping soundlessly beside them. It's neither a bad nor a good sign that he is still beyond motions, beyond the faintest whimper of pain. Someone with less experience than Loghain would perhaps even consider it a sign that the healing has worked, and resulted in a dreamless sleep. Elissa seems to be more like him than he expected, however, because as she turns back to him again, all traces of amusement are gone.

"The guards will watch over him tonight," Loghain says, leaning forward to soak up more of the scant warmth coming from the flames. "You should get some rest."

Elissa doesn't looks like she has heard him or if she has, she does not give much for his words. She is silent for a long time, studying her hands and fiddling with the still half-full bowl of food in her lap.

"He's the only one left, you know."

If he hadn't looked at her, and seen the words leave her mouth, he would not have heard the softly spoken sentence at all. Briefly lit up by the flickering light, Loghain catches a grimace on her face, smoothed out as she looks up at him.

"The only Cousland?" he asks, wondering if he has ever even pretended to care that much about his own, inglorious name. He never mustered up much devotion as the deal was set in stone and Anora became betrothed to Cailan, although his advisors had pointed out the sensibility and security in having more than one child. _For a man in your position, Your Grace._ As though an heir would make him immortal. As though he had ever wished for _that_.

"Not just that..." Elissa sighs. "Well, there is that. But... Andraste's flaming sword, this sounds so selfish. But Fergus is the only one left who knows me. Everyone else knows the Warden and the bloody Hero of Ferelden. He knows me as the fat little girl who got stuck in trees."

Loghain feels an unexpected surge of sympathy at her words.

When no one remembers the same things as you remember, when no one is left from _before_ – who do you become?

He knows this is what she is asking of him without _asking_ it and he wants to say that she lets sentimental notions of nonsense cloud her judgement but he knows, too, that there is something to her words. Over the years Loghain has allowed himself to be transfigured by duty and work, by battle and obligations but the truth - one he rarely admits - is that it is the absence of the people who have shaped him, more than anything else, that has changed him.

He is aware of the fact that he should speak, offer some sort of consolation, but he feels the obstacles surrounding that only grow the longer he waits.

Elissa doesn't say anything else either; they put more wood on the fire and watch, mutely, as the flames rise in front them and offer a tickling heat on their skin, driving the chill of the night away, if only for a little while. Loghain lets his mind drift, his thoughts expertly forming themselves after his will. Strategy and maps, slices of ideas of how to structure the recruitment process once they have reached Highever; he closes his eyes and thinks of training new soldiers, of performing the Joining, of what truth he will offer and what secrets he will keep.

The wet, thick mist of morning rises from the earth when the Commander finally falls asleep on the bedroll next to her brother's. Every line of the landscape is blotched and erased, the prospect of seeing them clearly decreasing when all is wrapped into the grey, quiet blanket. _Wool-sighted_ , Rowan used to call it, telling him once that it was a word she made up as a child. Loghain remembers it like he remembers other odd, insignificant details about her now that almost every other memory has escaped him.

And the sky is heavy as damp wool this morning, as he gets to his feet without any particular grace – still sore from the fighting and the cold sedentary night. He places another blanket over the sleeping commander and nods towards a guard when he walks away.

"Are you on the morning watch?"

"Yes, General," the guard, a girl who looks at him with bright green eyes in a set face, solemn in a way that makes her seem old beyond her years. "What can I do for you?"

"Don't wake her," Loghain says quietly.


	6. Do not go gentle

**AN:** This chapter contains a torture scene – while it happens as a backdrop and is far from graphic, it may still be a sensitive topic.

 

* * *

On the first day after the attack, they rest.

In the bitter cold and still distant whisper of winter drawing nearer, they rest even though there is very little in their behaviour that resemble it. To keep warm and to manage their thoughts and worries and guilt, they prepare for departure and oncoming storms alike; their supplies tended to and their weapons in perfect shape as the hours slowly bleed into each other.

The Wardens scout for darkspawn, the knights and soldiers search for human intruders and Elissa, tucking the role as Commander around her like an extra shield, spits orders and swallows her own insults. When in the growing twilight she can barely remember her own boundaries, stumbling between fury and manners and almost shouts at an undeserving Hawise, Loghain pulls her aside.

That night, as the stars appear all around them and their breaths become visible in the air, Loghain – stern-faced and taciturn almost as if he senses she wants it no other way - practises archery with Elissa until her fingers feel calloused and _raw_ but her throat less tight, her lungs willing to breathe in and out.

They work hard.

She aims for the branches right underneath the heavy crown of the tree, here in the outskirts of the forest where the voices coming from the others are thin as shadows and mist. She aims for the branches and fires at the stones, far into the copse at their left.

" _Sod_ this." Tossing the bow to the ground she goes to pick up the arrows. "My mother would be so disappointed her only daughter shoots like an Orlesian wallflower."

In truth, Elissa is somewhat ashamed she never allowed herself the brief moment of obedience it would have required to agree to the tutoring her mother had wished. It had been one of those things Elissa refused out of sheer ill will, suggested during a period of time when her mother would find a hundred ways of improving her daughter, moulding her into a Future Wife, and Elissa had carried _those_ in her body like pathetic insults, as though her mother did not mean well. She feels a fool for it, now. And even so, she has always preferred swords, never had the mind or the careful temperament suited for hunting and no king or rebel that she knew of as a girl had used a _bow_. Banishing the thoughts of Highever altogether, she squats down to wedge the head of her second arrow out of the roots of a large oak.

When she returns, Dog in tow, carrying the arrows like trophies, Loghain has picked up the discarded weapon.

"You hold it like it's a sword," he comments evenly; she has never seen patience in him before, and likely this isn't as much patience as it is a desire to _not_ have his commander go berserk in camp that guides his actions, but he is calm, nonetheless.

"No, I hold it like it's a _bow_." She observes as he takes hold of it, making it seem to fit perfectly into his grip, motions fluid and the bow a body part rather than an enemy. Searching her mind for images of him – or of The Hero of River Dane – without that longsword and his shield, Elissa frowns.

"Like this," he walks up to her and places the bow in her hand waiting for her to get it into the correct position. Elissa sighs. "No, higher up. Yes. _There_. And you have to stretch it farther than that."

She does as she is told, her bow arm reaching out as much as she can force it to, without straining her shoulder; Loghain steps behind her, she can feel his breath against the bare skin on her neck, the puffs of his exhaling being the warmest thing in the entire forest. Shivering slightly, she looks straight ahead, into the still visible branches lit up by the moon and stars. She will place this sodding arrow exactly where she can see the thick wood diverge into smaller fractions, resembling human hands in the dusk.

"Point the bow to the ground," Loghain says, putting more pressure to her bow arm until she has followed the instruction. "And then load it."

Elissa reaches for an arrow, the cold making her fingers tremble slightly around its shaft. As she is placing it against the string, he puts one hand over hers and adjusts her fingers somewhat. A flick of his thumb over the joins of her fingers and the shaft falls into place.

"Hold the string and the arrow between – no, you must have a lighter hand around the shaft."

And she can't help but smile at that, biting her lower lip not to chuckle. The weight of the world on her shoulders and so _much_ she doesn't allow herself to even think about but for some reason this trite innuendo tickles at her defences.

"Are you not a bit too old to be that juvenile?" Loghain asks, dryly, in a tone shaped by thirty years in the company of young soldiers, no doubt.

"Of course I am." She flashes another half-smile his way. "Is this better, then?"

He inspects her hand again and nods. As she begins to draw, he is there once more, pushing her hand up further.

"You should take aim from here," he says, placing the side of her thumb against the corner of her mouth. "Do you see your target well?"

"Yes," she says, careful not to move her head in the least. "Did I relax the drawing arm too much last time?"

She feels Loghain nod; he stands so near that he aims with her and as she gets ready to release, his hand on the back of her cloak urges her to straighten up.

"When you release, you must not let the drawing arm slack." He pauses, waiting for her to prepare for the shot. "Fire; then let your back bear the brunt of it."

Leaning back a little into the palm of his hand that suggests the stance for her, Elissa fires.

The arrow flies gracefully up into the sky and brushes against the crown of the tree before falling into the unknown dark shrubbery behind it. Her second goes into the tree, a bit further to the right than she had expected, but still into the bark of the tree rather than somewhere else. The third arrow misses its mark; the fourth wedges itself in right in the middle of the diverging branches, which she counts as a success.

"Better," Loghain agrees.

They both wait as Dog sets off, eager to collect the spoils of their practice session. Elissa suspects he will do it with more drool and less finesse than one could wish for, but she has no particular desire to walk around the forest aimlessly looking for arrows, so any help is appreciated.

"Did you learn archery as a boy?" She glances sideways at Loghain who inspects the bow, tightening the string that she adjusted previously.

"I did."

"Did you help you father hunt?" Elissa puts the back of her hands in front of her mouth and lets the hot breath cover them, momentarily, with a moist warmth. "At the farm?"

"No," Loghain answers, handing her the bow.

He isn't going to say anything else, she knows, shaking her head a little.

It would be tempting to say he is merely a man who doesn't communicate, but that is not the truth. At times he is almost eager to talk, or at least willing to offer explanations or elaborate on his thoughts; over the past few months they have spoken at length, more than once. Yet there are clearly defined lines around him, around his words and what he shares, a wall separating one thing from another. It seems, at times, as though his body is only half-inhabited. She hears a dissonance in him, like the clash of two weapons and perhaps it is the silences he keeps – she has always been too curious for her own good - but they linger in her, all those pieces that do not obediently fall into place.

The feel of the bow is beginning to resemble a muscle memory now, Elissa notices as she holds it again. She knows where it goes, where it _fits_.

"Okay," she looks over her shoulder at Loghain, assuming the stance he showed her. "This is correct, is it not?"

"Yes," he confirms. "That looks good."

They practice until Elissa can barely see anything and her hands are so stiff she has to warm them up against her stomach underneath the shirt and cloak; she aims and fails and occasionally she hits the right spot, which sends a flush of deep-rooted pleasure inside her. It is not met with much praise, because it is still not very good and Loghain isn't a man who lies unless he has a good reason, which means that save a few muttered curses and a handful of exasperated remarks, they speak very little.

And if he sometimes notices how her composure melts around the edges and she has to take a few steps away from him, concentrating hard on breathing without falling apart, he gracefully lets it pass.

"I must say that I prefer swords," she concludes when they make their way back to the others.

"Of course you do," Loghain responds and she can see the suggestion of a stiff smile hidden somewhere in the controlled expression on his face. "You know how to use those already."

"Thank you for the lesson, all the same." Tucking her hands into her sleeves, she stifles a yawn. Sedative potions do little for her when Fergus lies a few feet away, balancing on that edge between – _no_. Elissa bites down, hard, as if trying to pause the rest of that thought. "Perhaps we can continue it another day?"

The question – or _statement_ , truly, since she is the commander after all – receives no answer but falls swiftly to the ground among their steps, the soft thuds of boots and paws. Then Loghain looks at her, almost reluctantly.

"My father taught me to use a bow," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "He served in the rebel army before I was born. Before he married my mother."

Then he quickens his pace, obviously considering his duty done and expressing it in such a way that it leaves Elissa with a strange impulse to thank him for it, but since that would be utterly foolish, she, too, begins to walk faster.

**.**

**.  
**

On the second day after the attack, Zevran pulls himself out of the Fade and back into the world of the living and Elissa feels _lighter_ as she visits him that afternoon, exchanges a few unimportant phrases just to make certain that he is, in fact, not dead. He is still very tired, Shirei explains, almost dragging Elissa away.

But he lives.

The following day she is allowed to speak to him again, without a nagging chaperone this time.

"Ah, my deadly mistress," he greets her in one of the many irritating ways he has of putting a spin on anything that may or may not have passed between them in the past. _Bargaining with truth and flat-out lying_ , he had told her once, _are fine Antivan pastimes_. She doesn't know why it springs to mind now.

"Zevran," Elissa says simply.

In the paling light of late autumn and surrounded by flickers and shades of the fires they burn day and night, he looks too ghostly for smiles, so Elissa sits down beside him, cross-legged and serious.

"You saved my life." She lays her hands on the blanket that covers him, looking at him and frowning at the uneasy expression in his eyes. He shifts underneath her, as much as he can, struggling to find his usual ground, it seems. "I thought you were..."

She had thought he was dead.

She had watched him in the corner of her eye, leaping into her vision as a poisoned dagger flew towards her across the battle-filled skies and the next time she saw him he was barely breathing, venom flushing his face and emptying his eyes and Elissa had knelt beside him, mourning the loss of a friend.

It feels too cheap saying she is grateful for his survival, the word is too small for the depths of it. Especially now when the people she can count as friends are scattered all over Thedas.

Elissa removes her hands and looks away, granting him the scraps of dignity still left. She has fought with Zevran for over a year now and only rarely has he required bed-rest or much healing at all; in the beginning she read his unscathed appearance after battle as a sign that he did not dedicate himself very hard, later she understood his mastery of the fine art of evading damage – and made him teach her, of course.

"I said I was your man without reservations, no? I honour my promises. Well, _usually_."

"Still, what you did...I had not expected or demanded that, Zevran," she says, feeling the weight of this embarrass them both. It is nothing remarkable, after all. They are soldiers. Warriors. They have done this a thousand times over and the only thing that is different now is Elissa. Elissa who is tired of being saved. Elissa who is weary and heart-broken and sick to _death_ of demanding the impossible, of forging wills and collecting weapons in the shape of living bodies.

Zevran looks more at ease sitting up, even if the bandages covering his chest appear strained and possibly painful in this position. She's struck by a wave of guilt for this, for him and for everything else and Zevran apparently reads it in her face because he attempts a coy smile.

"Ah, but surely there is no need for this maudlin gratefulness, my dear Warden." His hand finds her arm, briefly. "It does not become you."

"No," she agrees, sucking in a deep breath as the reminders of the past few days return to her, clawing at the surface of her mind. Sometimes, for short moments when she is occupied with commanding or practice or when Loghain forces her to sit down in front of a map, she can forget. Then it – all of it, the stings and burns of seeing it all over again, of sitting by Fergus' side without hearing him breathe even though Shirei reassures her he _does_ , still – overwhelms her. "No, it doesn't."

"What is it?" Zevran asks, searching for her gaze.

"My brother." Elissa bites off the words, closing herself around the pain like a fist. "He... he still hasn't woken up since... It has been three days. We managed to capture prisoners, but they... ah, they will not talk."

Anything beyond that explanation is redundant. They both know this: the longer one sleeps after injuries, the worse it gets. Sometimes, Elissa knows, you don't wake up at all but wander the Fade for all eternity while trapped in your wounded body. _That is how ghosts are born, lass._ Her aunt Wilfrida would lower her voice sometimes, speak of it like a secret between her and Elissa and tell her that when people died in this fashion, body and soul apart from each other, it made such a rift in time that ghosts rose from the earth; it was a secret tasting of Highever summers and a lump in her throat made of thrill and fear as she climbed out of the castle to watch the fog sweep in from the lake. And the disappointment when, hours later, Nan wrapped her in blankets in front of the fireplace, her sighs even heavier than usual. _Searching for ghosts in this weather!_

They both know this, too: she is a commander and he, regardless of how much he might wish otherwise, is an assassin skilled at inflicting pain, with little regard for souls. She tells herself she has never promised a release from _that_.

And Zevran nods, asking nothing else.

**.**

**.  
**

The fourth day after the attack, the Grey Wardens - forming a short, taut line of silent observers - watch Zevran's first encounter with the prisoner. Elissa's order to have him tortured has met a few objections, but she buries the thoughts of what this implies under the steadily growing dread at watching Fergus' unnaturally quiet sleep, thinking she can worry about this later, if at all.

Huddled together, shivering with cold and anxiety, they stand there, watching the initially silent scene forming around the tents and fires. Zevran – all silky drawls and throaty laughs and deadly blades – towering over the dark-haired man who has closed his eyes to the torment. They both _perform_ , tossed into the game from opposite sides and playing this game until death frees them.

Elissa stands between Loghain and Shirei, her head strangely empty of thoughts. The mage beside her seems more restless, fretting about and allowing her gaze to wander rapidly from one face to the next, eager to ask questions but catching hold of her curiosity in time. Half-way into a frustrated comment, Elissa notices that the man being subjected to Zevran's interrogation has started to talk, if only in grunts and pants.

She walks up to them.

"Did he say something?" she asks Zevran who nods, still smiling his forcedly sweet smile to the prisoner. With a pang of something even stronger than guilt, Elissa observes the clots of blood in the man's hair, the infected wounds along his cheeks and the way he holds his arm, suggesting a fracture in its bones. None of these injuries are made by Zevran's hands – in fact, she can imagine he would regard them as brutal and crude – but by herself and the soldiers, days ago.

"He pleaded for mercy."

Elissa squats down in front of the man. He lifts his head enough to meet her eyes; there is a stench of death, she has learned this year, a stench of decay and corruption sliding into the body even before death has claimed it and this man carries it like a triumph as he looks into her eyes. He will die. He possesses all the power. What can she offer a man who is already marked?

The disappointment overwhelms her – the answers not yet offered already escaping her clenched fists, the blunt nails she drives into her own palms and when the man notices, he smiles a little. Something clicks in her mind at that, a tear at something delicate or the rests of it, reminding her of someone she used to be. Furious, she rips the shreds of memory apart entirely.

"Do whatever you have to do, Zevran," she says, getting to her feet again. "Wear him down."

"Yes, Commander," Zevran says, without hesitation but with a glint of emptiness in his eyes that doesn't leave her alone as she crosses the field and returns to her fellow Wardens.

And then they watch.

Elissa cannot tell how long they stand there, walk around to keep from freezing, speak in low voices about other matters while always keeping one eye on the macabre play. Eventually Zevran calls for her again, with a wave of his hand.

The man, at the moment propped up on his hands on all fours on the ground, has given up. Everything about him: his shape, the damp tufts of hair, the stains of tears in his face, the broken body and the cracked voice that comes out with great effort, tell her that much. When she bends down, she notices both Loghain and Jenner have followed her. Loghain stands with his legs apart and his arms folded over his chest, glaring down like he is waiting for a pupil to recite his homework; the other Warden has a way of looking at everyone like they are insects, and this is no exception to that rule.

"So," she says to the prisoner, bracing her own voice. " _Talk_."

"There's a... bounty on the teyrn's head," he says, his breaths raspy and shallow. She wonders briefly what Zevran has done to him but knows that she will never ask.

"On _Fergus_ ' head?"

"I rather think he means my head," Loghain says from behind her.

"Yes...the b-banns..." he pauses and coughs for a long time, spitting blood on the ground beneath her when he is done. "...he's worth a lot of gold."

"Ah, that might be something to consider then." Jenner's drawl is icy. "Should we run out of resources."

Elissa turns her head to give him a glare, but instead her gaze falls on Loghain, still standing firmly in the same position but avoiding her eyes, which resounds dully in her. She turns back to the prisoner. He has placed his head on the ground now, hissing noises slipping out of him instead of words. She allows him a short rest.

"Who, _specifically_ , sent you?" she asks eventually. "And the bandits, did you meet them along the way?"

"Yes." The man attempts a nod. "They... were bought men. I... was hired by Bann... Telmen."

She knows very little of Telmen beyond the encounter she had with his men, many months ago. Loghain's troops were sent to seize his land as a move in the civil war, which hardly seems like enough motivation for risking a public scandal involving assassins.

"Telmen?" Loghain asks, forestalling her. "Either that is a bold lie or Telmen is in collusion with someone else."

"Someone with even more reason to decorate their estate with your head, you mean?" Jenner comments, hands on hips. "Andraste's _arse_ , remind me again why this man is travelling with us, Commander?"

"This is certainly not your concern, Jenner," Elissa snaps. "Why don't you go help with the supper instead?"

The Orlesian rolls his eyes at her but obeys with a curt nod.

"Which is it?" Loghain squats beside them, picking up his thread from before. "Are you lying or are did your orders come from Talmen himself?"

"Do you have proof of either?" Elissa already guesses the answer to that, but asks anyway.

"I have this." The man stretches out a shaking hand towards her, its dirty palm containing a large medallion that appears to be made out of bronze or gold, covered in so much grit and blood it is impossible to tell what the figures and letters underneath are meant to depict.

"And this is?"

"I... stole it... f-from Telmen."

Elissa takes the item between two fingers, holding it up in a feeble attempt at interpreting it better that way. Then she hands it over to Loghain and turns her attention back to the prisoner. Behind them she can see the rigid contours of Zevran's back as he leaves them.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"N-nothing."

"Nothing," she repeats; this time it is barely a question.

He is quiet for some time, appearing to struggle to force air into his lungs. And his face, when he turns to Elissa once more, is not a man's but a ghost's.

"Show... mercy," he says. "Please."

Loghain looks at her, his gaze searching, and Elissa nods, not at him but at the prisoner.

And draws her sword.

Her blade sinks into the flesh with ease, a muscle memory she has certainly never asked for, and she even hits the right spot immediately; she can tell by the way his body convulses under her hands, how he shudders against the steel as his heart is severed and his life force cut off.

 _Mercy_.

**.**

**.  
**

That night is remarkably quiet.

All the sounds of camp - and campsites have them, in abundance - are muffled, on hold.

Walking with Dog around the outskirts of the forest for as long as she can, Elissa slowly makes her way back to the centre of camp where her brother still sleeps. He is so still, already mirroring the final arrangement of his body in a way that makes her run out of breath. She leans over him to place a kiss on his forehead.

For the first three nights she had been by his side, unperturbed by her own needs. But tonight she finds herself unable to stay, a stirring worry in her own body dragging her away, or him away from her. It feels a bit lonely; Fergus has offered a company of sorts.

Zevran is nowhere to be found, she realises, walking in circles among these people who are sworn to her but look at her with doubt tonight. And part of her is quite grateful for being given the respite; she will have to talk to Zevran soon, but not now.

She finds Loghain, however. Or rather – Dog finds him in the northern corner of their camp area where he and Cauthrien stay. He had withdrawn after supper, like he usually does, except tonight he has kept out of sight entirely, probably foraying the edges of the forest for wood or merely stayed invisible, she is uncertain of which.

He seems as tired as she is, slumped on one of the logs around the fire.

"Here," Elissa says, holding a goblet of piping hot cider in her right hand. "The soldiers on kitchen duty decided we need something warm; it is said to get even colder tonight."

He looks at her in silence for a moment before accepting the offering. Squinting a bit at the sudden reflection of flames in the bright surface of the goblet, Elissa observes him. It's odd. Of all the things she has come to accept as unmoveable pillars of fate and grim reality since she left Highever, and of all the things she has seen and done, it goes against common sense to fault him for _this_. It's as useless as blaming the weather or sodding Andraste because it serves no purpose, holds no other meaning than this desperate, confused pain.

And she blames him still. It's meaningless and pathetic and he ought to snarl at her and tell her she is making a mockery of herself, but he doesn't.

"It seems the amulet was indeed stolen from Telmen," he says. "It was signed with his family crest."

"You had a chance to examine it?" She picks up her own cider from the ground, cradling it in her hands to snatch some warmth. "So at least we know Telmen was involved."

"Yes, or that the assassin happened to rob the poor bastard anywhere else in Ferelden." Loghain raises his goblet to drink. "It proves very little."

Elissa looks down into the cup in her own hands, nodding. "It does."

"They have a point." He says it without altering his voice at all, the words falling out of his mouth like they indicate nothing. "The Orlesians. Travelling with me is hardly strategically sound."

"Of course they have a point." She shrugs. "What of it?"

Over the course of the day, the slight wind from this morning has increased, whipping up a storm resembling the sting of a thousand needles on any exposed skin. Elissa sinks into her cloak even further, her fingers tingling with the faint warmth from the goblet.

"It's not like the Landsmeet has been a secret until now," she elaborates, thinking her tone sounds strangely harsh. "This is not unexpected. It could just as well have been a political coup that did us in; someone aiming for my... for the teyrnir."

Loghain's quiet but unmistakably cold sound of scepticism makes her stomach churn a bit. "Don't be a fool."

"Don't be an _arse_."

"Have you considered continuing the journey?" he asks, stubbornly proceeding with the strategy. It almost makes her laugh that she has expected something else than this tonight, when he has never given it before. And why would he? Elissa grits her teeth. "We are expecting snow in a few days."

"My brother is dying for all we know-"

"Winter is coming," he cuts her off. "Would you rather have us all freeze to death before we can reach an inn?"

"We are _Fereldans_ ," she retorts, angrier now. "If we wait a few more days there might be snow, yes. But we won't be unable to reach Highver for a little snow on the ground."

Loghain sighs dramatically, the way he does when he thinks she is being idiotic or unreasonable. "At any rate I have already seen to the possibility of using the wagon. While I would strongly advise against it, given your brother's condition-"

"So, if you think we ought to move but strongly advise against travelling with a man as ill as my brother," Elissa interrupts him, not because she can't imagine the rest of the reasoning, but because she can't stand the thought of him _saying_ it. "What do you propose then? Leave him to the wolves?"

"I was not suggesting that," he says, quietly.

"He's my _brother_ , Loghain." Her voice has started to betray her, she notices, it shudders around the words. "Don't act like he's just another casualty, or like you expect me to see him that way! I'm not... I _can't_."

"Regardless of your feelings-"

" _No_ ," she interrupts and this time it is a command, driven deep into the ground between them. "Not tonight."

Neither of them speak for several minutes, perhaps longer than that. As Elissa picks up their empty cups from the ground, Loghain catches her gaze, very briefly.

"So what will your orders be, Commander?"

"Make sure we have a sound plan for moving across Dragon's Peak," she says. "If you think walking around it is safer or more convenient, we will. But _I_ decide when we travel."

He nods. She gets to her feet, calling for her dog but pausing in the middle of the act since the mabari is snoring, wrapped over Loghain's feet like a blanket. Then she snaps her fingers and adds a soft whistle to stir the animal who looks up at her, dazed but hurrying to her side.

"Elissa?" Loghain calls out as she is leaving.

Her name still feels unfamiliar to her when spoken in his voice, enough for her to freeze in her step, and she comes to a halt, glancing back at him. There is a slight pause while he appears to be about to say something, looking as though words are already forming at the back of his tongue but he is still silent when she turns around again to walk away.


	7. Back to the old house

"Tea?"

Cauthrien's voice is immediately there as soon as Loghain opens the flaps of the tent and steps out into the icy mist of the early dawn.

Not answering the question, Loghain slumps down on the log near the fire; he finishes the last buckles of his armour and looks out over their camp. Still no snow, Maker be praised.

He has slept badly and only for a few hours here and there and feels his mind wander like a stray dream from the Fade, scattered and difficult to read. Ordinarily he quickly readjusts in the morning, having been a light sleeper for as long as he can remember – a trait only strengthened by necessity and a lifetime's experience of being on the run and leading men in battle – but today he narrows his eyes in the unforgiving light, shuddering a little. This situation is taking its toll on them all. Even the darkspawn blood seems stronger in his veins when he is tired, the pull of it dangerously near.

"Tea," Cauthrien's voice snaps, cutting off his trail of thoughts.

He finds a mug on the flat top of the log next to him, followed by a plate of bread and meat, even a sickly looking winter apple that the night frost has dealt an ungentle blow.

"Thank you," he says, looking up at her.

She shrugs.

Then she sits down opposite him, her face stern and her eyes observant of his every gesture, it seems. Loghain is rather certain she has a few berating speeches stored in her somewhere, lectures that only remains of hierarchy and obligation keep her from throwing at him. Times like these she reminds him so much of Anora.

"You are not worried." It's not a question, and her voice is not inquiring; she rolls up a slice of meat and wraps bread around it before taking a large bite. She has always had efficient methods even when it comes to eating.

"You are?" He takes the tea and swallows a large gulp, hoping in vain that the warm draught will thaw out the cold.

"It is a perilous journey still ahead and we have already lost the teyrn." Cauthrien frowns over her plate. "The Fade will claim him soon enough even if his body recovers."

Shrugging, Loghain takes a slice of bread and puts it in his tea. It has been days since the supply they brought from Denerim last tasted good, now they just eat the last of it to fill themselves.

"He is not dead yet," he says, ignoring the prickling sense of vague guilt attached to those words.

He has spent a good portion of the night battling the irritation over current events and always, clearly and infuriatingly, he has returned to the suspicion of having underestimated the danger. That the dull grind of Denerim's prison-like inn chambers, raving nobility and political turmoil crept under their skins to a much greater extent than he – or anyone else - realised and left them impatient and reckless. And he does not dwell on mistakes, but this one is strangely different, its potential consequences spreading like a bloody disease.

"There will be more assassins out there, looking for you." Cauthrien brings him back to the present again. "Half the nobility want to see you dead."

"And the other half?" he sneers, knowing perfectly well what the answer is.

"They are too cowardly to agree with the first half." Cauthrien suddenly half-smiles back, and her face looks less frozen as she does that, a little something of the cracked confidence between them slipping into place.

 _You will have to find ways to mend it,_ Anora had said hurriedly in Denerim, in a fashion that was scarcely worthy of a sharp mind such as her own. _The damage you caused_. There is a little bit of her, a fraction of her whole hidden well under layers of politics and intelligence, that hopes against hope. Celia had always been the same. And Loghain, his mind a dreary and heavy-set lump of sensibility beside theirs, would sometimes and with great reluctance try to give in to the tugging, demanding threads of wishes and dreams but never for long and never successfully.

And he cannot hope to mend the damage done. There is no way to even begin. Even evading the consequences of it has begun to seem like a hopeless task.

"Well." Loghain straightens his back and attempts to ease out the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. "There is no reason to believe we will linger here much longer, at any rate."

"She won't move an inch until the teyrn recovers," Cauthrien says, in a tone that is assertive and dry and the result of fifteen years of tightly woven threads of comradeship and command. What he knows she knows, too. "That is the problem, is it not?"

"There is no problem." He fishes up another slice of soaked bread between two fingers and puts it in his mouth. He is still hungry like a creature starved. As predicted by his commander, his hunger has increased remarkably since the Joining and this alone is nearly as strange as the noise in his head. Even years into his life as teyrn, even _now_ , Loghain had never adjusted to the self-indulgence of nobility, the constant feasts with its overly abundant offerings of both food and drink and the following carousals. "Remaining here will not be detrimental to our journey."

"Unless, of course, we are attacked again or we are hit by the first storm of the season or-"

" _Furthermore_ ," Loghain interrupts her, "This is the decision the commander made and therefore your orders."

Cauthrien gives him an unreadable glance.

"Yes, General," she says, coolly.

**.**

**.  
**

A pale winter sun is already low in the sky the afternoon when the Teyrn of Highever eventually wakes up and his doing so cracks a noise in the grave silence of the camp, like ice breaking in the spring. Loghain hears the news as he instructs a group of soldiers to get rid of a pile of discarded armour and sends one knight far up into the mountain passage to investigate the current status of the decided route.

"He's awake, General."

Loghain hasn't been aware exactly _how_ bothered he has been, how much it has occupied his thoughts, until the weight off it falls off his shoulders. Shrugging away the last of it, he turns to the messenger.

"He's awake," a knight repeats to him. Ser Greta. It's the same woman who stood guard in camp the night the teyrn was wounded, he recalls, having learned their faces and names now. "And the Commander wishes to see you."

"Very well," he nods. "Thank you."

Walking down to see her, he finds the camp quiet, as uneventful and grey as the backdrop - the heavy mountains and the thin air, the crispy yellowing grass beneath their feet and that sense of being on the brink of something new. Loghain immediately spots Elissa where she is kneeling beside the teyrn's side; her hands are holding his and it's so sombre a scene that nobody would guess it's a happy occasion – until the teyrn's hand reaches out to tousle Elissa's hair. Loghain stops short of a smile. He can't imagine anybody else in all of Thedas that would do that to her and live to tell the tale.

"Commander," he says, nodding at her, then turning his attention to her brother. "My lord, it is good to see you are recovering."

"My sister tells me I owe you my thanks, Warden."

"Hardly," Loghain says.

There's a smile in the teyrn's face at this. "Well, you have my thanks all the same, I'm afraid. Do with them what you wish."

Elissa grins at her brother and Loghain shrugs, ignoring the feeling of being the odd man out.

"Was this the reason for your summoning?" he asks the commander instead.

"Yes, I wanted to let you know that we will be continuing as soon as Fergus is a bit stronger," she doesn't look at him, but he can hear from her tone and the way she still smiles at the teyrn that her eyes look calmer than in a long time.

As Loghain walks away, the relief is so tangible in his body that he can almost _taste_ it at the back of his tongue.

That evening the Orlesians serve a rabbit stew and large tankards of ale as the dark sweeps over them all; Cauthrien and a couple of knights are guarding the camp and Loghain rolls up his maps and crosses the field to reach his Commander.

She has taken her meal by herself near her own tent, for once. He finds her sitting wrapped in a cloak and a thick fur, cradling a mug in between her palms.

"Loghain," she greets him, glancing up.

"I have set the route for our continued journey," he says. "When you are ready to travel."

He gets down on the ground beside her, unfolding the largest map he has of the northern coastland in front of them both. Elissa leans closer, adjusting her position so she can have a better view; her arm – clad so heavily that it feels like the thick paws of a bear – pressed against Loghain's own.

"Do we walk across it or around it?" She sips her draught. It gives off a faint scent of ginger and honey.

Loghain looks at the drawn mountains. They appear so simple in this fashion, so easily overcome on a sheet of paper that he can crumble up in his hands or rip to shreds.

"We are abiding by the plan to use the mountain pass," he replies. "I did send out a small patrol earlier today and they are safely returned."

"Good."

Elissa nods, her gaze fastened on some spot in the distance, leaving her facial expression blank and unguarded. For as long as that lasts, she looks very worn out, her face old beyond her years and Loghain looks away, somewhat unsettled by this. There is so much they must do. So much she must carry, so many things tied to her name and her titles and so little a general can do about it.

Being here, not attending to their immediate duties, has given him time to reflect on the journey ahead and the near future. They still have had no word from the order in Weisshaupt where Loghain assumes the Headquarters are located and from where orders go out to Wardens all over Thedas. And the land granted them by the King and Queen must be addressed as well, although he cannot see them getting around to that in many months.

There is little rest in their future and while he welcomes it for his own sake, he wishes things were different for her. It's an unwelcome, most ridiculous thought for a general so he pushes it back again.

As Elissa sighs beside him, he is reminded of his other reason for seeking her out.

"Stop blaming yourself," he says.

"I... what?" She frowns at the abrupt comment.

"Stop blaming yourself," he repeats, voice pressing harder now.

"I'm not _blaming_ myself-"

"Of course you are." Loghain rolls up the map again and around it he ties the little string he uses for this purpose. "You are the commander. We were attacked and the soldiers failed at their duties."

She offers an odd, slightly hurt smile that reminds him of their encounter the previous day. "So you are telling me to stop blaming myself even though I _am_ responsible for this?"

"I am telling you to get yourself together." He keeps his eyes on her; her mouth is a thin line now, angry but controlled in a way she hasn't been for the past few days. "It is not merely about this. You will have worse days as a commander. There will be losses, other losses, that you have to accept, no matter how cruel they are."

Sighing, she scratches the side of her face, tugging at a strand of hair. "I'm aware of that."

"No," he says, "I do not believe that you are."

"Thank you _ever_ so much for that confidence."

Now she is decidedly angry with him and Loghain nearly groans, feeling he's had a lifetime of this already, not wishing for a minute more. Ill-suited as he is for gentle coaxing, he finds himself doing it as an inescapable punishment present in every chain of command.

"I was offering my advice as a general," he says, eventually, making the effort to keep his voice calm and even.

She raises an eyebrow. "And if you had been offering it as a friend?"

He's silent a while, pondering this. There is no reason they _should_ be friends despite her rather odd belief that they _are_.

All things considered, though, these are not normal circumstances and the Wardens are not army soldiers. His commander has spent over a year leading a group of friends and now she is commanding a troop of _brothers_ _and_ _sisters_. If he is to successfully be her general, he understands, he must somewhat conform to her defining lines, her own code.

"My advice would not differ."

She looks at him, a little wrinkle appearing on her forehead at his words but she doesn't seem irritated, merely thoughtful, as though she is reaching a conclusion.

"Good to know."

"Every commander makes mistakes." Loghain leans back on his hands, still observing her. "Every general, too. There is no exception."

"I suppose you would know all about that."

He snorts, but she is _genuine_ , he notices and cuts himself off before he has given a response to that.

"I do know," he says instead, simply.

Elissa nods at that, looking out over the camp, lost in thoughts. She has finished her tea and tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her mass of clothes.

"I have had nobody to rely on since I left Highever," she says, quietly and almost reluctantly, the words coming out in small sighs. "Every decision from where to make camp to what we should do about the bloody werewolves... I know it's arrogant of me to think I alone carry the weight of this sodding world, but..."

Her voice fades away and Loghain nods.

"You must learn how to live with that," he says, forcing away the feeling of repeating empty phrases he imagines he would have wanted to hear, a long time ago, but that he knows he would never have taken seriously if someone had offered him. "And not let it get to you."

"Have you?" The curiosity in her face gives way to urgency as she turns her head to look directly at him, waiting.

Loghain averts his gaze momentarily.

There came a point where he stopped waiting for the end – of the war, of the rebellion, of the role it forced upon him – and started thinking of it as something he would always have, that would always define him. A point when all the diverged roads melted into one. He no longer remembers when it happened or why, but it was _there_ among the clash of weapons and redrawn maps and gaudy statues and celebrations; it was part of them as much as they were part of it and Loghain resigned into it, like Maric and Rowan. They made a point of remaining who they had been, took to irreverence and curses and strange intimacy in private, until that, too, disappeared into the long shadows their actions had cast around the Palace and they became almost-strangers to each other. As though the war had taken everything they ever were.

"I have done this for more than half my life," he says now, squaring his shoulders and avoiding the question. "What do you think?"

Her wistful smile carries a sadness that he isn't certain is directed at herself, and it makes him feel like something has crept under his skin, but he doesn't look away.

Neither does she.

**.**

**.  
**

Two days later, they begin travelling again, with the Teyrn of Highever safely tucked away in the carriage should any more bloodthirsty assassins sneak up on them.

"Tells you something about who we value the most, doesn't it?" Jenner's drawl is unmistakably amused, as he walks by Loghain's side after the carriage where Elissa has opted to spend the first uneventful part of today's journey.

"If there is something you want to say, then speak up." Loghain has half a mind to make the brat trip over his own sword, but focuses his attention on the mabari at their side, marching between Loghain and the Orlesians like a shield. Scrambling through his pack, he finds a bit of cheese that he allows the dog. This, too, causes Jenner to roll his eyes.

"Ah, it's nothing," he says coyly, but continues all the same. "I wish we could have arrived earlier, in time to see the mighty Loghain fall to his knees in front of a girl, that is all."

"Girl?" Loghain sneers. "Oh, you are referring to the woman who drove back the Blight? Yes, she bested me. And the Archdemon, incidentally."

"Apt comparison." Jenner chuckles, carrying himself with the posture of someone who has accomplished something important.

"And your point is?"

"He rarely has one."

Loghain looks to his right where Hawise walks. Serious and quiet, she is the only one in the foreign troop that he can tolerate. She nods at him.

"Jenner is the best duellist I have ever seen," she elaborates conversationally. "We have deemed his skills good enough to tolerate his... _ah_ -"

"Personality?" Loghain fills in, wondering how often a Warden can possibly be needing duelling skills. Perhaps Orlesian darkspawn are better trained.

"Yes." Hawise offers a small, tucked-in smile. "And while we are on the subject, there is a matter of logistics we ought to solve before we reach the coast."

"I have already spoken to the Commander," Shirei, the mage, cuts in from behind them. Her voice is strained and Loghain is amazed at how out of shape a Warden can be. It seems impossible, considering their living conditions and daily routines. "I will accompany her."

"What a brilliant choice," Jenner says, the words thick with sarcasm. "Nobody is better suited as a guide than she who spent all her life locked up in a tower."

"Belt up," Shirei retorts so quickly it's obvious she has counted on his comment.

Loghain is inclined to agree with Jenner, much as the mere concept of _that_ makes him wince inwardly. The tactical choice would be Hedin or Hawise, he thinks. But the mage is a healer and that has its merits, of course; Elissa has likely planned on covering all her potential needs for the stay in Orlais and he can't fault her for that.

"If you wish, I can go with her as well," Hawise offers, glancing at Loghain.

"I do not make decisions for the Commander," Loghain says, wondering what has given them this idea in the first place.

"Oh," Shirei says, a touch of amusement creeping into her tone. " _Right_."

"You would have to ask her yourself," he says sharply to eradicate the mage's attempt at being funny at the Fereldan Wardens' expense. "Unless, of course, you are afraid of her?"

"No, you are probably the only one," Jenner snaps.

"Ah, if you lot could stop behaving like children." Hedin has reached them now, moving gracefully and quiet like a cat in the grass. For all of their journey so far, the elf has never made himself part of any constellation; he is crossing in between and around them, seemingly unperturbed by all personal relationships. "The best choice is for the Commander to be accompanied by Shirei and her own small set of friends. It is nothing more than a courtesy call at the Orlesian headquarters, after all. No?"

And Loghain has little choice but to agree with that. "It is a formal visit, yes."

Hedin nods. "Then Shirei shall go with your Commander, as agreed upon previously. The rest of us will be here with you, Loghain."

"That sounds good," Hawise says, smiling that peculiar smile again, and Loghain says nothing, but increases the pace of his steps as though it would be possible to outrun his own future.

**.**

**.  
**

They move quickly, without any disturbances, and at dawn on the fourth day of the journey the smell of sea in the air guides them the last few miles towards their goal. Shrouded in what feels like the first hints of a cold rain of early winter, their little group of travellers reach the last bit of open road until they can consider this stage dealt with.

"Good job," Elissa says, as they come to a halt on top of the brink surrounding the large village of Highever. Her hand touches his shoulder momentarily as she pushes herself up further, to get a better overview of the landscape spread out before them.

 _Highever_.

"The rumoured darkspawn attacks were said to have hit Highever," Loghain says. It is rarely a good sign in wartimes to meet this kind of peacefulness and his commander knows that, too, because she inhales sharply at his side.

"We will see for ourselves soon," she says, her arms wrapped around her body for warmth – or comfort- as she decides she has seen enough and goes to wait for the rest of the soldiers. Loghain tries to catch her gaze but she stares defiantly at the road ahead, looking so defencelessly _young_ that he must remind himself of her title and his own and the thousand shadows cast over the place they can't seem to find an escape from.

"Should I seek an inn for the soldiers?" he asks. "I would imagine that is most convenient."

"No, there is room for you at the castle," she retorts, quickly.

"I rather thought you-"

"You will stay at Highever Castle."

And Loghain, watching her cautiously as they make their way down into the village, is uncertain if her voice that cracks does so under the weight of cruelty or grief or something in between.


	8. Homecoming

She doesn't know when she stopped thinking of it as _home_.

Or when home became the people and the causes instead of places on the map; she is uncertain _why_ , too, because people are unreliable and causes change, but Highever stays the same.

It's the small details:

It's the sight of the village they pass quickly - no sign of neither darkspawn nor people - and how it spreads out before their eyes. She'd stroll here so often as a child, using the houses and people as fluid or fixed marks of her games, pretending they were enemies or friends, heroes or villains as the small roads took her to the place of her imagination. Heroes, rebels, kings and queens. And dragons.

It's the earthen smell, the open landscape and the lake just a walk away. Rooted deep within her idea of herself and of the long, windy summers and _running_ , her breathing like harsh, hissing beats of waves against the rocks inside her chest and the taste of salty water at the back of her tongue. She used to play here, used to live here, became a _person_ here in this place full of caught kisses and tears, bloodied knees and nursery rhymes where the innocent words gradually got replaced with crude ones as the meanings and intentions changed.

It's the fears of her younger, different body that seems so soft and breakable now, as she walks here again, carrying half her weight in plate and steel. The fear of settling down, the silly fear of never being married, the tight throat and harsh rhythm of her heart whenever she was late those months when Rory or someone else had accompanied her on her small nightly quests outside; the fear of disappointing and the fear - thick and impenetrable and _constant_ \- of confinement.

 _Highever_. It's the same but she knows, because she stood on the top of Fort Drakon and held lives in her hands, made kings and contracts and boundaries crossing life and death, that everything has changed.

And she has missed it like one misses a home or that part of yourself you can never have back.

.

.

.

.

Elissa breaches the gravel path leading up the main entrance of her childhood home, Fergus walking slowly beside her, keeping up with difficulty. As they approach the door, her confidence falters. It's a small tear in the ordinary task of entering a home, but large enough for them both to stop, bewildered.

"I..." Fergus begins, paling.

"We could..." Elissa says, scrambling among the shallow forms of her position and titles to find something suitably detached to cling to. There is nothing behind her voice or behind her words, merely empty sounds.

"I was almost hoping it was gone."

She wants to say that is is, that everything is gone and can't he see that? Nothing but the skeleton remains, a corpse of a castle, where the worms and the birds have consumed all that once constituted its flesh; now it's merely old, bare bones and the flurry of echoes that cross the courtyard and land at their feet.

Duncan had dragged her out. They couldn't use the regular entrances and he had _dragged_ her; fought half-heartedly with her to wear her out, she supposes, and tore her away from her own memories with every mile they managed to cover. Elissa saw herself die as they moved. She saw herself on the floor with mother and father, or wrapped around Oren's body, or in the garden, spread out like a sodding martyr; Duncan forced her away from her own life and for the longest time, perhaps even now, she thinks _this is what it's like being dead._

"I'm not," she mumbles now, surprised to hear the words.

Fergus looks at her like he's about to ask something but she shakes her head, leaning closer to his warmth.

Then Cauthrien has to be the first to enter, followed by Zevran and Loghain, while Elissa concentrates on breathing. She feels her brother's hand in her own – when he took it she doesn't know – and hears him say something that gets lost in the shuffle of soldiers following their commands and Zevran slipping outside again nodding and saying something, as well, which makes Fergus start walking.

Their hands part; Elissa remains.

"They do not make castles like this in Antiva," Zevran says quietly in her ear, his arm sliding around her waist as he's very smoothly motioning her from the stairs, and begins walking slowly towards the opened doors through which she can hear sounds and voices. "But we have vineyards to console ourselves with."

Elissa looks at him for a long time before her mind has caught up with her body. "Vineyards the size of a bannorn, from what I've gathered."

"Ah, and populated with depraved nobility and their permanently drunk concubines." He pulls at her arm as she hesitates again on the doorstep, the arm around her waist surprisingly strong considering how much bigger she is. "One day I shall show you, yes?"

"Only if the concubines are still there," she manages, weakly.

Zevran chuckles and they take another step, followed by yet another. "You are a woman of great wisdom, my dear Warden."

"I am, I know." There is something inside her that responds to his forced, light-hearted familiarity that has spurted out of the most dire situations before, resounded against the stinking walls of the Deep Roads and over the burnt flesh of dragons; it trickles into her unguarded thoughts and she finds the responses to it simple, natural.

And she may have lowered her gaze to see nothing except the soles of her feet that are marching blindly onwards, and her heart may race and that angry song in her head, the soar of darkspawn and Wardens may upset all momentum but there is something she recognizes in Zevran's voice, the weight and pressure of his body against her own. An odd kinship, perhaps. One not forged by darkspawn blood or necessity.

He lets go of her as soon as they come into sight. Elissa looks longingly after him as he slips away towards the others, as though he was never separated from them at all, but she _must_. A deep, ragged breath and wide-opened eyes.

And she is back in Highever Castle.

.

.

.

.

In the Main Hall, she can still see them.

The knights and servants, the footsoldiers and tutors walking around the corridors, gossiping and giving orders; she can hear the anticipation of feasts and memorable events, trace the bottled up anxiety and stress before something extraordinary and the mundane days that would always follow.

She sees them so clearly on the empty walls where portraits used to frame the room.

Her father who should have been a man old enough to wear life down completely before passing on, her mother with the proud face and the eyes that she could make hard as flint; the men and women before them, who have made no impression in Elissa's memory but all the more within the world, who has shaped it and handed it over and now they are all _gone_. The portrait of Aunt Dora who was _terribly_ _unlucky, dear; it's tragic, that's what it is._ Aunt Dora who had nothing – no husband, no heirs, barely an estate worthy of the name - to credit herself with beyond having lived at all. She kept a thorough record of this life of hers, the only thing she had, kept letters and diaries and endless stories of an unforgotten childhood that had never been replaced by much at all; she is still Elissa's favourite relative and greatest fear.

If Fergus hires a painter, she wonders if she will be the Dora. Her portrait hanging on a separate wall, its frame reaching into ghost-territory.

The ghosts.

Elissa knows now, after all these nights of watch and days of vigil that it's impossible to call back the dead. They are too scattered and too whole for that; they are dreams you have to wake up from. And the sensation when you do, when you are no longer capable of remembering anything beside the faint taste of old emotions casting no light any more, like dreams that have been burnt away.

"They are waiting for your orders." It's Shirei, her voice softer when surrounded by the heavy stone and masonry.

"Orders about _what_?" Elissa asks, feeling as old as the castle.

"There is talk about going down to village to investigate what might have happened... to the people-"

"They have likely been killed," Elissa interrupts. There is something in her throat, grabbing hold of her words so they come out as muffled, _twisted_. "If not by darkspawn then by the civil war."

Shirei walks up to her. Her staff gives off a low hum in the otherwise quiet room – the remains of some sort of defensive magic, Elissa has learned – and her entire being seems to do the same, radiate some sort of energy that is meant to be comforting. It feels too intimate and not nearly soothing enough, so Elissa angles away from the glances.

"Should I tell the soldiers to remain?" the mage asks, softly.

"Yes." Elissa sighs. "They are under Loghain's command while we are staying in the castle. Tell them to report to him; he will give them orders."

"And what about the teyrn?"

"Don't disturb the teyrn with these pointless questions, for one thing." Elissa sneers. " _Surely_ you can leave him alone? Direct all inquiries to me or Loghain. Understood?"

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence before Shirei nods and slips out of the room.

.

.

.

.

Growing up, the armoury was always locked with keys only her parents were entrusted with. She was not allowed to play there, so of course she had been inside it several times already when her mother one day deemed her grown enough for the spot in the castle where they kept their weapons and shields and that locked chest with the Highever crest.

Now she has lost the key and it's her dagger that opens the nearly caved-in door.

Her safe haven is the way she remembers it.

She'd sneak in here when it still was forbidden, pockets full of plums and figs that she had stolen from the kitchen and that tasted like freedom and excitement, and armful of books smuggled out and left behind so the armoury eventually got its own secret library: populated by tall, dark knights and resourceful ladies and allusions that only years later made any sense.

In the corner where the masonry has cracked completely and the stone structure seems to crumble, she can almost see herself, much younger, holding up her skirts and closing her eyes and quietly praying that nobody would burst in but hoping a little, too, that they would. His name was Reginald; she thought they were smooth as a pair of thieves but a couple of months after he had agreed to meet her in her hidden place he got sent to Redcliffe and never returned to her father's service.

Elissa finds a pile of debris in the opposite corner, only realising it's actually not waste but familiar items – paintings, broken tables, even a few volumes of what looks like Aldous' own family chronicles – apparently not deemed valuable enough for gold but tossed into a locked room awaiting their fate of dust and mildew. It feels so wasteful she bites down hard on a curse.

Kneeling beside the lot, she pulls out the painting of her grandfather that belongs in the dining hall. That has _always_ hung in the dining hall and been imprinted into the very air in there; the frame is broken now and there's a dampness along the upper corners, paint coming off as she drags her fingers over it.

"There you are," Loghain says suddenly from the doorway. She has not even felt him approach; her blood seems to have calmed down in this place - or stiffened like her grief.

"Did you want something?"

He walks closer, she can hear the sound of his boots and sense his scent, because some things can't be discarded even in this castle and he is still in her _blood_. It feels like salt in wounds here, remembering him by Howe's side, remembering him at Ostagar, too, learning about what had happened and all but promised her it would be justly punished – except of course he didn't promise anything, but she had wanted to think so, had expected it of him; Elissa grimaces, staring at the slowly drying paint on her fingertips. Brown, green, red. As though she has dragged her hands through the surface of the earth.

"The soldiers have taken care of the luggage."

She nods, or thinks she nods. He clears his throat.

"I said that the soldiers have taken care of the luggage."

"Fergus' men didn't do a thorough job," Elissa says, chest tightening around the hollow that has swallowed everything else there. "They don't seem to have bothered going into locked rooms."

Loghain falls silent behind her.

"I see," he comments, eventually. She can spot him in the corner of her eyes; he is standing close, leaning against the wall and observing her. What he thinks or feels about being here, she can't even begin to guess and he doesn't let anything slip. And there's a sudden _rage_ in her at the thought of his carefully bound momentum, a rage as much directed towards her own overwhelming emotions as his apparent lack of the same.

"He said my mother died on her knees, like she ought to." Elissa stares at straight ahead, her voice coming out in a strange tone that sounds unfamiliar even to her own ears. "Howe's men threw all the corpses in a pile and burned them. He told me this in Denerim. Like dogs, he said. I can't tell Fergus this."

"No," Loghain agrees.

"Do you think he ever regretted it?"

She turns her head, glances at him over her shoulder, momentarily.

"I doubt he did," he says. "To him, it was an act of war. You do not regret doing what you decide is necessary even when that necessity is monstrous."

Elissa laughs bitterly. "You don't? I know _I_ do."

He sounds different when he responds, his voice harder, like he has coated it in steel for this purpose. "What is the point in regretting that which cannot be undone?"

There is something in her head, a whisper far back, hidden somewhere among the knowledge of history and politics and the art of speaking to people and the secret art of never letting _them_ know how much _you_ know and the uses of shields and everything else. Something Mother Mallol would say, about facing the Maker with your heart open and your hands empty.

It seems unlikely Loghain will face the Maker with anything but this ridiculous _posture_ and it makes her unfathomably sad, for reasons she can't grasp. It also makes her furious, like he has taken her own heart and laughed at it, deemed her grief unimportant and considers it an _obstacle_ in their usual existence of darkspawn and Orlesian politics _._ She wants to hit him, hurt him for it.

"This painting of my grandfather belonged to my mother," she says instead, "it was her heritage."

"Elissa, I'd suggest-"

"It's broken, look at all this, the bastards have just tossed everything in here and- _shit-"_ she pulls her hand back, realising she has driven a splinter from a broken frame through her finger. Sucking the blood from it, she rises to her feet and almost crashes into Loghain's large frame. "I'm going to-"

" _Elissa_ ," Loghain interrupts, his voice harsh, his hands reaching around her wrists and she turns around to tell him to leave her alone, shove him away but the concern in his eyes catches her off-guard. "Calm down."

"Oh, you...you-" She tries to speak – _you bloody bastard, what gives you the_ _ **right**_ \- but she can't get any words out of her body, because suddenly the air in her lungs is gone and she gasps, trying to push Loghain away but he is still holding her, hard and ungentle, and it's not until she almost starts _crying_ that she hears what he is saying through the noise in her head and the soaring in her chest.

"You must breathe," he says, releasing her when she stops struggling. "Breathe."

Breathe.

That is simple. She can _breathe_.

And she does. For a while that is _all_ she does, leaning against the damp stone wall outside the armoury, she inhales and exhales methodically, and Loghain stands beside her, the front of his shirt bloodied and rumpled.

The shame of almost having lost her hold of herself - in front of the person in this castle who is the least likely to respect her if she does, no less - trickles down her spine. Elissa closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again she sees that he is still watching her.

"They were human _beings_ , Loghain." Her voice carries, there is a strength in her even now that almost comes as a surprise. "They were my family. They were _important_. Howe slaughtered the bloody Teyrn of Highever! And you shrugged it away like they had been cattle."

"Those were not ordinary circumstances," he replies, with the steel-voice. He has lowered his gaze, it grazes the floor. "I... thought that I needed Howe-"

"What for?" She can hear her question echo in the room, it's loud and dark and reaching beyond the past few months' pragmatic reasons and acceptance. " _Why_ would you need _Howe_? He was a useless vassal barely fit to govern his own bit of land-"

"I needed him to help win the Landsmeet's support. I am hardly a politician," Loghain cuts in, his eyes flaring up a little. He speaks of it like it is nothing worthy of his time, she thinks, probably considering it petty games played by the lords and ladies while others are tasked to do the hard work.

"No," Elissa says, feeling the urge to claw further at the slowly cracked composure. "It has been made abundantly clear that you are not."

They stand like duellists waiting for the cue, she has folded her arms across her chest and Loghain wears the expression she has come to know as the one that means he is about to storm out of the room, ending the conversation. But not tonight.

She shifts her weight between her feet and flickers stray hairs our of her eyes.

"Oren was _five_. He was killed along with his mother, Maker knows what else they did to her -"

Loghain flinches visibly at that, a ghost of something floating across his face.

"I am aware of exactly what Howe did," he says.

"I know you are." Elissa swallows. "You made him your right hand, after all. You let him near your daughter and you allowed him to... Maker, Loghain, you let him do whatever he wanted – how can you, you _shouldn't_... How can you even stand the _thought_ of yourself?"

She expects him to explain that they are people, tragic times and important people but still _people_ and those are always, in his own words, the currency of war. She expects a patronising speech of the kind he knows so well how to deliver.

"I have done far worse than this," he says instead, the tone of his voice running hot behind the cold anger, and _that_ she has not foreseen.

"So that is going to be your excuse, then? Because you have done worse things, this doesn't count?"

"It's not an _excuse_." He spits out the word, like it's a venom she has given him.

"Oh, of course not," Elissa sneers. "You do not make excuses because you do not regret anything."

Loghain clenches his teeth, the line of his jaw stiffening; she walks up to the pile of debris again, wiping her bleeding finger on her breeches and sighing heavily.

"Under all those layers of necessity and duty you must have a sodding _heart_!" she cries, despite herself and feeling the immediate urge to blush at that idiotic statement or drive a sword through him for having witnessed it.

"What of it?" Loghain sounds like chord about to break, about to snap furiously. "What sort of confession do you want? That I am sorry about what happened to your family? I am. I am sorry about what happened to your family. Does that bring them back?"

"Maker's breath, Loghain, I'm asking you to be _human_."

"And yet you have already concluded that I am not."

Once before has she seen him like this – about to let go of his control. Once, and she has never forgotten his voice or his gestures or that face he had at Landsmeet, standing before the crowd of vultures ready to devour him: _how dare you accuse me!_

When Elissa first spoke to him - _truly_ spoke to him - one night when they were softened by worry and battles to come she was introduced to his language of movements, gestures, words and silences. He had seemed so terse, reduced to the exact amount of humanity that was required to accomplish what he had forced himself to accomplish. Nothing beyond this. She knew, of course, that his life has been through a war and like all wars, this one had used everything it had, emptied itself and taken what it needed to. But still.

He had seemed so inhumanly controlled and the mastery of that control - even then, thrown into a new existence when the old one had desperately failed – had been so great.

It wavers now before her and she takes a dark and twisted pleasure in conjuring it, his faltering.

"Would you have done the same if Maric had been alive?"

Loghain makes a sudden move towards her, lips curled in a snarl. "This has nothing to do with Maric!"

She stands her ground, remains motionless as he comes closer, until they are merely an arm's length apart.

"Would you have found the same things necessary if he had still been your king?" she asks, aware that she is cruel, but unable to stop. Something is dragging her forward. "If Rowan had been there, would you-"

And that hits somewhere deep under his defences, she can see it by the way his face dissolves and reassembles itself again, the pieces shuffled together in the wrong order so there's an edge remaining, a little glimpse of _him_ falling through the cracks.

" _Don't_ ," he interrupts, coldly, as though all rage has turned to ice. "Do not speak of them as though you know... as though you have _any_ idea of what we did. What we had to do."

"Would you have done the same if Maric had been alive?" she repeats, urging him to look at her but he doesn't; Loghain turns and shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair in an exasperated gesture.

"No," he admits. It sounds like a sigh.

"Why?"

The room seems to wait with her. Loghain paces the floor, like a prisoner about to be released from a cage.

"I have hardly given you the false impression I am someone else, have I?" he asks, without answering her question. "So why this sudden need for my guilty admissions?"

Elissa looks at her own hands, faintly hoping they will hold the answers. Then she lets her gaze wander up, across the dirty, dusty walls until they land on Loghain's face.

"Because I cannot _stand_ the thought that this callous bastard is all that's left of you," she says suddenly and when the words are spoken she realises they are one of the most honest things she has ever said. It scratches at secrets too raw for her own liking, so she clears her throat. Loghain has stopped, but he stands with his back to her.

"Then don't assume you know so much about me, _Commander_ ," he says, and before she has regained enough command of her voice to respond to that, he is gone.

.

.

.

.

As a girl, she dreamed of flight.

Dragon-backs and fanciful tales, mountains of snow and ice and oceans whipped to foam by storms and the sea monsters in those stories her father sometimes would let slip into her chamber when she was ill and he sat by her bedside, watching over her until the creatures living underneath the bed had fallen asleep. Oddly enough the bed-creatures were soothed by only the most horrifying tales. Mother never understood, but father did. He told her of dragons and dwarves and swords that could cut through stone if held by the right warrior. _And that could be you, my little raven._

Elissa finds her own chambers largely the same as when she left. Almost as though the battle has taken a leap across it, deemed it unimportant and raged on elsewhere.

She doesn't particularly _want_ to sleep tonight but they have travelled far and kept a fast pace so she needs it, her tiredness makes itself present in her body and her temples that throb with a steady beat. Flat on her back she counts the spots in the ceiling. The sound of soldiers rings in her ears. Pressing her hands to her head she thinks of duelling, of archery – no, not of archery because that reminds her of other things that hurt dully and persistently – of her fading knowledge of Orlesian -

 _No_.

When she opens her eyes she sees the arrows hit Iona's body, sees the ensuing uproar and can smell the stench of fire even under the clean sheets. She's burning, she is certain she is _burning_ and with Dog at her heels, she runs out, the same way her feet have taken so many times before.

The garden is faded and untended to, the shape of tall bushes and in against the backdrop of the strict stone walls gives it a appearance of the Wilds. There has been no one here in a long while to curb nature. No Nan to rage against the course of the inevitable in her vegetable gardens where she grew tomatoes and herbs for the kitchen, as stubbornly as the managed the servants and regardless of what everyone said about northern Fereldan climate.

Elissa remembers Nan's hands and the way she used them - giving Elissa a pat on the cheek or a squeezing of her shoulder - and the way they smelled of onions and pepper, sometimes oil and sugar and always, always of safety and bedtime stories underneath it all.

Her footsteps push down into the frosty grass as she's approaching the cave-like arbour where she spent untold hours of her childhood, hiding from Aldous and mother and that loud-mouthed sword instructor that kept insisting Fergus was better suited for two-handed weapons because he was a boy although Elissa bested him at _least_ every other time they fought.

She would sit there, as a little girl and as a slightly older girl with slightly shifted problems, covered in the leaves and filled head to toe with that rich scent of blossoms and grass and the power in being in hiding until she wanted to be found.

Tonight there is no room in there because the opening she always used has grown intact, the bushes are thick and thorny and her own height and width too imposing for hide-outs.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Fergus wears a fur cloak over his regular clothes where he stands, with Dog running up to greet him by nuzzling into the back of his hands, searching for something to eat. But her brother has never been the type to care for dogs like that.

"We used this exit," Elissa says, not coming to a halt, because for some reason she feels like _moving_ , incessantly. Her shadow on the ground flutters like a whisper around her legs. "When Duncan got me out."

"Ah." Fergus appears so old with that simple little sound, so old and weary and _done_. "Yes."

"I trust everyone has found beds," she says, in a ridiculous attempt at steering the inevitable to a lighter ground, a different world where the rules of their childhood games are prevailing and nobody ever dies.

"They did. There are spare rooms."

"Yes," she nods. "There are."

Elissa remembers stumbling over rocks, running through stubble-fields and watersides and she remembers falling, recalls Duncan's hands pulling her up, pushing her forward. He had carried her for some distances. Despite her size and the strength of her sword arm he had carried her like a sodding child, telling her sharply to _shut up_ and _see reason_ ; sometimes he would simply leave her alone, let her rage. When he spoke to her again she would be calmer, but not any more prone to listen. They had an uneasy journey to Ostagar and Duncan did not seem to mind. But he was used to journeys like that, she assumed.

"How?" Fergus asks suddenly, striding across a fallen rose bush. "Do you... where you there to see how they died?"

"Fergus, I..."

"I want to _know_. Don't... don't spare me."

"They had killed Oren and Oriana already, when I..." She feels her throat burn. "Mother came to look for me, she had not seen father. We fought our way down to him. He was very badly injured. He... the soldiers had surprised us entirely. Rory... he held them back while we ran off to find father."

"Oh, Elissa."

She doesn't come to rest, unblinking she keeps pressing her heels down on the already withered flowers and vegetables at her feet. Rory's eyes, his fingers tracing hers quickly and out of sight as he, too, granted her life. She wonders how much she has cost them all.

"Mother should have left with me and Duncan; I kept saying that she should. Father wanted her to. He wasn't even able to sit up. I... I didn't want to leave them. I tried to stay. I _did_. Duncan convinced father-"

"He recruited you against your will?" They're closer now, close enough for her to see the puff of white steam around his words. Then he sighs. "Well, of course he did. Why wouldn't he? You're... _you_."

"I did not _want_ to." It still tastes bitter; for all her bravado and cheap clichés, she can still feel the desire to shout out this injustice, its edges hot and sharp like needles under her skin. "I made a mess. He conscripted me, in the end."

He shakes his head, sadly. "I'm so sorry."

"Whatever for?" Elissa takes a few steps away, feeling a slight dread seeping into her as soon as they're too close, as though she will be entirely decomposed at his touch. "You weren't there, you didn't... I should have seen it. If I had been quicker, perhaps-"

"There was _nothing_ you could have done, Elissa." Fergus sounds like he is near anger.

"I should have died instead of... You know... if I _could_..." she has to stop to catch her breath. Fergus has caught up with her now, his arms pulling her into an embrace that is unlike anything they have ever shared before, devoid of light-hearted bear hugs and pats on the back because this time they hold on to each other for dear _life_ and Elissa thinks that if he falls, she falls, too. And when he drops to his knees on the ground, she follows.

"Don't say that," he whispers, his mouth buried in her hair. " _Please_ don't say that."

Then her brother gives a cry, an almost monstrous sound rising from him and it takes a second before Elissa realises he is sobbing, violently, their intertwined bodies rocking back and forth on the ground and she clutches him and before she has time to regain her calm she is crying too, her face pressed into the curve of his neck.

* * *


	9. The rest I will tell

_How much we'll tell down there, how much,_

_and how very different we'll appear._

_What we protect here like sleepless guards,_

_wounds and secrets locked inside us,_

_protect with such great anxiety day after day,_

_we'll reveal freely and clearly down there._

**(The Rest I Will Tell To Those Down In Hades - Constantine P. Cavafy)**  
  
.  


* * *

The first snow of this winter season falls during the still hours of the early morning.

When they break their fast, the ground outside becomes covered in a thin, quickly disappearing veil of white and Dog rushes about in the corridors and out in the courtyard, his big paws leaving soggy marks all over the floor. There are no servants to clean them up so they walk around it.

As they eat, Loghain is seated between Cauthrien and the Antivan, right next to the group of Orlesians. There's a bowl of unidentifiable porridge in front of him and he supposes it would taste at least decent if the hapless cook had bothered to use at least a smidgen of herbs or salt.

"The plan is to investigate the village before nightfall then?" Cauthrien glances sideways at him over her mug of tea – she is the only person he knows who wants warm draughts with her morning meal – and speaks with a voice that is deliberately low. A line of worry across her forehead and a note of the same in her voice; he nods and swallows another spoonful of porridge.

"It is," he confirms.

"Because of the darkspawn attacks?"

She is on the edge of her seat, casting apprehensive looks at the others, unused to being surrounded during even the briefest of conversations regarding their missions, he suspects. Loghain exhales heavily, putting down his spoon and with it, the last attempt at eating at all.

"Yes."

Last time Cauthrien was in Highever he had sent her to hunt down Bann Valdric's men and set an example of how he intended to deal with the insurgents. She had bowed her head and accepted - the unspoken words so tangible he never had to ask what her thoughts on the subject were - but she was safer out on the roads than she would have been meddling in Denerim so he didn't let her voice any complaints. When she returned, she did so with the report of five hunters having starved to death, refusing to acknowledge Loghain as their regent and Cauthrien had never looked at him the same way again, her gaze avoiding his for many weeks afterwards.

He doesn't blame her for acting strangely in these halls. Besides, he is the only one who can interpret the guarded woman correctly, to the untrained eye she isn't anything but her usual cold and composed self. He has told her this before, intended as comfort. She had, however, merely given him a rueful smile in response.

"Lovely," Cauthrien mutters, putting a rolled up piece of meat in her mouth. "More darkspawn."

Loghain looks over at the other table where his commander sits with her brother and a few of the soldiers sent here in advance. Elissa isn't eating either, he notices. There's a quiet discomfort in the room, mirroring that before battle and he is half expecting her to call to arms as she raises her head and meets his gaze over the untouched food and subdued voices.

But she does no such thing. She merely looks into his eyes and he returns the glance.

And once more it feels as though she has the tip of her sword at his throat.

.

.

.

.

It's _much_ too quiet.

That is the first thing that strikes Loghain as they venture out of the castle and walk the path down to the harbour and its surrounding village. In the others' faces he can see that they agree.

It's a silence not explained by the aftermath of a Blight or at least not solely by it, because a Blight or any sort of war leaves the scenery _torn_ and here it is not; it's silenced as though someone has put a thick blanket over the village and suffocated it in one big, sweeping stroke. Leaving nothing behind.

Over the last couple of months – and above all during the weeks since they left Denerim – they have seen destruction and wastelands, villages harvested in their entirety by darkspawn hordes, and yet this is something that seems different from all of that. Perhaps it's because they are in a poor state as an army and feel the disadvantage. Perhaps it's because of the deliberateness to this; they all seem to share the idea that this is not coincidence, judging by the facial expressions of the Olesians and their discussions, low enough not to be heard as anything but noise.

"Andraste's mercy," the teyrn sighs, squatting down to examine a large pile of food that has been thrown on the ground outside one of the two windmills that are framing Highever. It's a basket full of flour, spoilt vegetables, salted meat and something that smells strongly of milk, or what once was milk. "This is eerie."

Elissa is right behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"It's not fresh," she concludes quickly.

"It was weeks since we got the reports of the attacks," Loghain says, stepping forward to have a better look; the teyrn turns his head at the words, trying to rise quickly to his feet but has to lower himself again as he falters a little. Loghain holds back a sneer. The idiot should be resting. Elissa's pursed mouth tells him she agrees with this, at least, even if she would probably behead him for saying it out loud now. Or saying anything at all, truly. Her face has been steely all morning, her gaze avoiding his. She holds out her hand for her brother to grab and Loghain grants the other man the favour of pretending not to notice how difficult it still is for him to get back up.

"This waste is hardly that old." Cauthrien has walked up to them as well, using her blade to poke at the remains of human life; she grimaces slightly as the smells rise.

"It appears they've just been overrun," Elissa says, pressing something back in her voice, something dark and almost too contained. "Some of the ones who managed to flee the Blight and the civil war... they must have returned. To be attacked again."

There appears to be little to say in either response or protest to that, so they don't linger – Cauthrien takes the lead with the Antivan who almost looks _bored_ in that arrogant manner he has, which makes Loghain suppress a desire to whack him over the head with his sword. The two of them disappear behind the corner of a small shed that the windy climate in the north has not treated too well, returning with a rusty helmet and nothing of importance.

The village is still empty.

"I feel the trace of darkspawn," Hedin announces suddenly, holding out a hand in the air, like he's expecting to catch it in his palm. Loghain can't feel more activity than usual and when he looks at his commander she shakes her head as well.

"Do you know if it's fresh or not?" Shirei asks and shakes off a lump of snow stuck at the bottom of of her staff.

"Not yet."

They proceed further along the small roads that lead deeper into the buildings, down to where the Chantry is located and the castle is visible in the distance.

"Hedin is starting to feel the Calling." Loghain turns his head to meet Shirei's bright green eyes. They appear quick and clever and mismatch her otherwise heavy-set frame. She observes him, as though she's waiting for a similar confession from him. The Joining is thought to kill a man your age, the damned Orlesian had told him months ago and Loghain had considered it a blessing. He still does, though there is a gentle pull at the back of his mind, reminding him of duty and _need_ and a faint shadow of atonement that sometimes is all too visible, even if he knows better.

"I see."

"That's why he feels what the rest of us don't. Sometimes he can sense darkspawn by old remains of their blood."

"It sounds inapplicable for battle," Loghain steps aside not to walk straight into an overturned basket of chopped wood. "He is bound to be led astray."

The mage shrugs. "The upside is that he can sense them from far away and track them long after they've left a place."

Even the wind is stilled here, Loghain thinks as they reach the fisheries and blacksmith down by the water. Highever is a flat, open landscape and it should be torn by nature in every way, not grow calm and peaceful and _dead_ , not like this. He tries to shake off the uneasy sensation of knowing – somewhere in his mind, somewhere in his body – the source of the discomfort but not being able to reach it.

"So that is the normal course of things then?" he asks, to say something.

While he sleeps badly – which is not a novelty in his life; no general worth his salt, no general who leaves the war rooms, can claim to be a heavy sleeper – and has his dreams invaded occasionally by the ugliest creatures he can imagine, the darkspawn taint has not been unkind to him. It serves as a reminder of the fact that he is mortal – a banal truth that is easy enough to forget for a man in his position, he has learned – and that he has only a certain amount of time at his disposal. It exacts things from him. Loghain finds that he appreciates it.

"I think so," Shirei confirms, falling silent.

Loghain nods, simply. It never hurts to be aware of what is to come.

He is about to linger behind to ask the Commander about the next step of their investigation when he feels the loud beat in his head, the swirl in his blood and they stop - all of the Wardens at the same time, controlled by the same force – in front of the Chantry's large doors, taken aback entirely with the premonition.

With little more than that moment to prepare themselves, they are thrown into in battle.

The emissary is the first one who appears, but not the last. Answering to his call, there are soon a swarm of darkspawn coming from left and right, storming the little group of humans. They have barely fought together as a group and it becomes evident here, cornered between houses and presumptions and different ways to do battle – the Orlesians spread out and Cauthrien gives the field a quick look before leaping to cover the teyrn while Hedin does the same. They barely avoid a collision.

"Blasted emissaries should have retreated underground!" Hawise shouts over the noise of a spell scratching the top of her helmet but leaving her standing; firing rapidly in the direction the magic came from. "It's no longer a Blight!"

"Shut up and fight!" Elissa barks – her sword buried in a hurlock's neck and her boots kicking at another to prevent it from coming closer – and her voice rings clear in the air, despite the turmoil.

And just as the darkspawn emissary is falling, the shrieks attack on _cue_ , which is what Loghain has time to think and almost point out, before he feels a sharp blow to his back as Jenner is thrown off his feet and takes both Loghain and Elissa down with him.

" _Shit_ ," he hears her hiss as his elbow crashes into her side and the hilt of her sword hits him in the chest. The Orlesian entangled with them utters a foreign sentence – all curses, Loghain presumes – before pushing the Commander away.

Loghain and Elissa get up at the same time, using each other as a support as they drag Jenner to his feet as well, ignoring his grunting disapproval. He almost shoves their hands away as he stands again, swords drawn and only seconds from beheading the second emissary who is running in the opposite direction, managing to escape in the chaos.

"Shrieks!" Hedin roars and he refers not to the ones they are already fighting but another group appearing from the pier and the sheds.

"Be ready!" Someone else – the mage – screams as a response and immediately after the words have reached them, Loghain sees her run into the crowd of attackers.

It's so fascinating he nearly forgets to fight.

Shirei stands in the middle of the crowd, shrouded in a stark blue light while she's chanting something and then, as her spell slips from her outstretched hands, Loghain understands with full force why she is a Warden. The energy pulsating from her body throws the shrieks off course, fells some of them completely and cripples the rest by confusing their sense of direction. Hawise's arrows seem to be in perfect synchronisation with this power; she evades and fires with an impressive accuracy, far superior to his own archery skills.

They manage the second wave of the shrieks as well, all of them left standing as the soaring increases rapidly yet again, and Loghain almost groans.

This time it plays out differently. The darkspawn clog up the pier before him and when he turns his head he spots another horde from the another direction – hurlocks, genlocks, alphas and one large emissary who towers behind them all, seemingly in control. Elissa darts up, gesturing to Shirei and Cauthrien to follow suit. Loghain signals to the Antivan and the rest of the Orleians to gather and form the second line and just as they are, as they make the pattern, the crowds scatter.

He hears something that sounds like a voice, and watches the creatures spread into formations, running in streams and far too _deliberate_ groups.

And when he sees Elissa engulfed in one mob and the mage in another while the oncoming troop pays no attention to Cauthrien, there is no doubt about the enemies' motivations.

" _Go_ ," Loghain tells the elf, who has already taken a step forward, aiming for the alpha about to lift the Commander up by the throat.

Then the darkspawn coming from the sea demand all of his attention and he cannot finish another thought in what appears to be forever, except a few crude words strung together when they manage to round on him. He cannot say how many of them there are, but he can tell that they certainly have the upper hand and that he appears to stand alone. The rest of them are occupied and Loghain finds himself pushed back, forced to retreat down the slope and further down, his feet stepping blindly backwards as he fights off a couple of shrieks rather badly with his shied. Over stones and slippery pebbles they go - his lacking attempts and their well-organised rhythm of fighting - until finally he slides down on the ground, taking a blow to the head and another one to his shoulder as he lands ungracefully on the snow-covered pier, his sword gliding out of reach.

The alpha who bested him lets out a triumphant noise and Loghain sees nothing but the glimmering axe in the air above him as he looks up, flat on his back and waiting for the blow. He closes his eyes. A shuffle of noise and darkspawn beat in his head, screaming, wild and rebellious here at the end of things. Perhaps it will drown him as it carries him across, to the Fade.

"No, don't kill him."

The _voice_.

Loghain blinks, raising a hand to wipe away the blood and dirt from his forehead that trickles down into his eyes; his mouth tastes of grit and held-back pain and he can't see properly who stands before him. But his head throbs, heavy and steady beats of familiarity except it feels _different_. It's not the alpha. It's not a human.

That voice cannot not belong to a human; it is as though the _earth_ speaks, growling and low, like the rumble of thunder and the hissing of the wind.

But just as he is about to prop himself up, Dog comes darting forward with a threatening sound that only a Mabari with a mind set on killing can produce. Loghain momentarily thinks of making the animal come to a halt out of sheer curiosity but before he has caught his breath, the creature that spoke before gives a terrible roar and stumbles down, as Dog tears into his throat. It produces another sound – this time from the alpha, who shifts his attention from Loghain to Dog who throws himself at the much larger creature without hesitation, a low growl rising from his body and in an instant, the other darkspawn is dead, too.

Still struggling to breathe and feeling his will to try leaving him rapidly, Loghain gives up on all efforts to rise. In the distance he can hear the battle go on but here by the water, all that disturbs his fractured trail of thought is Dog who prods him with a wet, cold nose before giving a chain of loud barks.

And that's all he has time to think before he drifts off.

.

.

.

.

There is a fire when he wakes up.

A fire that is making crackling, hissing sounds from somewhere beside him, giving the room a warmth that seems almost unnatural. Of course, he realises as he opens his eyes and cannot properly focus on any spot – and when he thinks the chair in front of him appears to bleed into the surroundings, tinted with every colour and never completely still – he has likely had something for the pain.

Loghain edges a little in the bed, fingers clutching the thick blanket he is buried beneath. Something is tugging, in turn, at the thin, still sleep-confused strand of his thoughts. He is not alone in here.

"You're awake," Elissa says, stepping into view. Her arms are folded and from what he can see, she is not dressed in armour, which means the battle is over. Before he has asked, though, she nods. "We killed... most of them."

"Most?"

The word tears unpleasantly at his throat and he winces, swallowing a few times.

"Some appear to have got away." She looks as bothered by this as he is, to hear it. When she is walking closer to his bed, he notices that she has bandages across her stomach and wears the tunic turned up above it. "Hedin set out to track the scent he found, afterwards. But he couldn't tell us anything."

 _Talking darkspawn_ , Loghain remembers with a sudden stroke of clarity. Last time he had heard of talking darkspawn they had been collaborating with another group of Orlesian Wardens, nearly costing Ferelden another king. He inhales sharply, closing his mind around the confession. If he is going to admit something he doubts he even heard, like a child speaking of ghosts, he's bloody well doing it while fully sober and standing upright.

Elissa eyes him suspiciously. "What?"

"What?" he echoes and this time it is less painful to speak.

"You were going to say something." She has dragged the chair to his bedside, with the slow and careful moves of someone in pain; as she sits down, the scent of poultice and herbs is so rich it almost stings and he feels carried back in time to scenes similar to this one but with other faces and other motives.

"I... no," Loghain wants to sit up, but it seems a hopeless prospect as there's something thick and sore and _aching_ in his chest – as he puts his hand there he feels bandages and the tingling trace of magic still tangible on his skin. "Your dog is well trained."

"Of course he is," she says, sounding very annoyed at his change of subject but doesn't steer it back to whatever she wants to speak of either. "I came to change those, too."

She nods towards the wounds he has just disturbed, revealing a small supply of bandages and pastes.

"I can do it myself," he snaps, wondering if they have taken the liberty to throw away his warmest set of clothing to wear under armour. He is not wearing it, at any rate. Most of his chest is covered in a blood-stained compress. "If memory serves me right you are an atrocious nurse."

Her face tightens a bit around the comment.

"Fine," she says, tossing the things she brought on the bed. "I don't care. You will live. They will be festering but you will live. Shirei said you would require a good night's sleep and some more potions."

"I will take my chances then." Loghain makes an effort to reach for the little pile of bandages and manages to get hold of them before falling back into the half-seated position; he wonders if the sodding humiliation is part of her plan, too. Maker knows he may deserve it. "But if I survived the Joining I might survive a festering wound or two."

Elissa sits back in her chair, watching him as he stubbornly begins removing the first corner of the cloth. He feels his entire body tense in protest when the sticky paste that has been attached to him gives in to his tearing and loosens its hold of skin and hair. Sodding mage must have overdone the thing, he thinks, vaguely, feeling the pain echo in his head.

"You've started bleeding again," Elissa observes dryly, as the remains of the greyish poultice and salves are mingling with dark red on his chest.

"Are you going to sit here and point out the obvious all night?" He has never found her as insufferable as he does right now, her voice grating at the very edges of his patience and momentum.

She suddenly gets to her feet, the rustle of her clothes close to his ear and then she has snatched the discarded bandage and thrown it away while dabbing a clean one to the wound. Loghain is about to protest meekly, but instead he holds both his breath and his tongue.

"Wait-" she is leaning over him now, pressing the cloth against his chest with one hand while she pushes him back onto the pillows with the other. For a second their eyes meet and she looks at him, intently, a trace of something in her eyes that he hasn't seen before, a wistfulness or perhaps gentleness that leaves him slightly unsettled. He certainly has been given enough draughts today. "There you go."

"Just-"

"Just shut up and stay still," she interrupts, as though she's filling in the blanks of his own sentence.

Loghain clenches his teeth when she, once the bleeding has ceased, pours a badly smelling, warm liquid on his chest and he can _feel_ it, seeping into him; then she eases her touch and when it returns it is very soft. She offers a dry, warm bandage and careful fingers that run along his chest to fasten the new compress.

Averting his eyes he does not see when she leaves his side, nor does he hear it because he feels the potions rage through his veins again, their powers reassuringly great.

"You did not leave me," he says, sharper than he intended, making it sound like an accusation. It might be, still.

She stops, half-way out of the room but still close enough for him to hear the pointed scoff at this remark. If he knows her as well as he thinks, he suspects she is also shaking her head, jaws clenched.

"Don't be _absurd._ "

And he leans back against the pillows, relaxing as much as the hum of sedatives and abiding pain allows him to, wondering how long the cease-fire will last.

.

.

.

.

The following morning, the snow has melted.

In the same constellation – reinforced on his own orders by every man and woman currently working on restoring the castle, leaving only a handful of guards behind – they head back into the village. The soldiers are eager to be out, leaving room for the recently battered to walk at a slower pace.

Loghain glances at the commander by his side, one step ahead as though she's deliberately going faster; there's the same odd sharpness between them, comparatively cold and distanced from the interaction that has followed the Landsmeet. They have always found voices and words, shared them and agreed like soldiers on duty.

It is not the same.

But they can, of course, always trust the darkspawn to force them together again. Trust the blood oaths to swirl them into the same spot, from which no escape is possible. After having admitted what he thought he heard, Loghain had certainly not counted on both agreement and a similar confession from his commander. Yet that is exactly what he has been given. And while it is soothing to realise he was not seeing ghosts after all, he would have preferred it to the alternative. Talking bloody darkspawn.

Elissa finds her voice first this time.

"Do you think it could have something to do with _her_?" she asks, pulling Loghain aside. They begin to walk down towards the sea, putting distance between themselves and the others who are still cleaning up the ghostly area around the houses in the harbour.

"It seems far too soon."

"Oh, for an ordinary... _yes_ ," she winces around the words, just as he does whenever he tries. "We don't know what _this_... would be like."

Loghain has not allowed this recent memory to surface one single time since it happened and even now as they stand here, speaking of it, giving it a voice and a shape as well as frightening possibilities, he finds that he pushes it back deep into his mind. There's resentment there, and some wounded pride, and he can't yet bear to untangle the mess.

Elissa steps out on the pier next to the small fishery where the scent of rotten fish is rising from large brimful baskets of the last harvest; there's also a tree legged stool and a small table where a knife glimmers in the sunlight. Loghain spots a half-empty mug of unknown liquid beside it. This, too, is the scene of someone simply disappearing without putting up a fight.

"Before we left Denerim, I contracted a rogue to track her," he admits, stooping over the table to look at the scales and trimmings, but the smell makes him start back. "A woman of great discretion."

He had expected the Commander to berate him for it, given her frustration with other decisions he has ventured or his own without her approval, but she merely nods.

"So did I."

"She must have known we would," he turns to face Elissa who is looking out over the horizon, one hand holding back her hair and the other firmly placed on her hip. She resembles a clichéd painting of a returning, conquering hero.

"I'm actually not so certain," she replies thoughtfully. "Morrigan is used to other people being convinced by her lies, I think. She knows how to have her way. I think she believed me when I promised not to seek her out."

"That seems unlikely."

"Does it?" She frowns. "Besides, what means do you assume she has at her disposal? Certainly no powerful contacts or gold to speak of. She is alone."

He scoffs. "Do not paint her as some martyr in need of pity and compassion."

"Hardly."

For some time neither of them speak, both intent on avoiding the wrong steps along this path.

"She will not have any reason to put your name to this," Elissa says suddenly, as though he has asked her a question. "You don't need to worry about that deed discrediting your name, at least."

Something darkens in him at that, a note of fury.

"Do you truly believe that I care so much for my pride and so little for everything beyond it, Commander?" he snaps, suddenly feeling the control slipping out of his hands entirely and that hard lump of rage loosening up a little as he gives it words.

"I didn't-"

"Is that why you believe I have spent thirty years in the service of my country? To have a bloody statue erected in my name?"

"Well-" she begins but sighs, silencing herself. Loghain watches her turn away.

She thinks very little of him and while he cannot fault her for it, nor fully explain to himself why it irritates him that she does, it is something that he can't deny. He knows it is partly anger and partly a self-pitying notion that the one person - in all his life - who has managed to bring out more decency in him save perhaps Maric and Anora, is so quick to disregard all of it.

Around them the air is damp and hanging heavily over their heads, promising rain or snow before nightfall. The smokey fog rising from the water wraps them in a sense of being all alone where they are, as though the others up in the village are being swallowed by the same void that must have swallowed the villagers.

Loghain hates the sea.

With an embarrassingly large effort, he squats down in front of a big lump of what appears to be clothes and a pack and confirms that it is – one pair of obviously discarded breeches as well as a bit of canvas covering a catch of carp. It takes no more than a light touch for his fingers to slip through the soggy surface of gills and fins and be knuckle-deep in rotten food. As he washes the stench away, kneeling to the best of his ability, Elissa pulls out a handkerchief from the pockets of her trousers and hands it to him.

"No," she says after a long while, as though she has taken her time to ponder the question. She keeps her gaze fastened on him, _searching_ , and as she continues there is a different tone in her voice. "I don't think that about you."

"Thank you," Loghain replies, not even bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

They linger at the pier, walking back and forth.

Dog wanders in between them, eager like a pup and constantly setting off at random to investigate another shape in the grey clouds around them, returning to receive praise or Elissa's absent-minded pats on the head. Loghain wonders how long she has had the dog and is about to ask when she suddenly stops, Highever Castle peering down at them from the heights. He stops, too.

"I always hoped something would happen so I could get away from there," she says, her voice low but audible. "At first I thought it would be a knight who carried me in his arms, off to adventures."

She half-smiles, looking away again. Loghain isn't certain why she suddenly agrees to speak to him at _all_ , let alone of anything more intimate than darkspawn; he has been told at times that he does not communicate particularly well, and if this is true then the same goes for his commander. But he feels a relief at her words, lets them in.

"I would have expected a teyrn's daughter to have her ambitions set higher than a paltry knight," he replies.

Not that he knows what daughters of teyrns are truly dreaming of, not that he allowed his own much of a choice in the matter. Loghain puts on his gauntlets again, the icy metal offering at least some protection from the wind.

"Then I wanted to escape on my own," she continues, seemingly oblivious to his remark. "Or with Hestia. We would fight the dragons."

"Children always dream of flight, I suppose," he says eventually.

"Did you?"

Did he? Had he been dreaming of anything at all? He must have, he knows, as the question settles into his mind, into the badly sorted fragments of a past he had put on hold already before he had lived it through. Out of necessity or fear, or a combination of the two perhaps. Elissa looks at him while he remains silent, her gaze merciless. What does he remember? That day when the Orlesians came, a whispered command not much later – _You are a big boy; you will look after yourself_ – and then somehow he was already a young man who made promises to his father that he still isn't certain he has kept. Loghain has cleansed his own past, scraped it bare and holding on to only the things that shaped him. For better and for worse.

"I don't remember," he answers finally, so truthfully it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You're not _that_ old." Elissa sounds slightly tired, but accepting, as though his lack of memories somehow has been answer enough for her and whatever it is that she wishes to know.

"It has little to do with age." Loghain picks up a handful of pebbles on the ground near the wooden piles holding the pier up. They've returned to the land now, at least momentarily. Dog barks from a bit further ahead, having spotted some familiar faces in the village and is gone in a whirl of grey fog and whipped up earth. "And more with necessity."

"Yes," she says. "That sounds like you."

He can trace the shadow of an insult in those words, but it slips away again, shifting like the sea.

Loghain looks at the flat pebbles in his hand; as he tosses them back into the water he remembers another cold winter's afternoon like this, when Anora had made him teach her to play ducks and drakes. She had seen other children do it and Loghain had stood with her on the shore in Gwaren, showing her how to throw the stones to make them skip across the surface until they were both fed up with her lack of success. She never _did_ learn and held grudges towards both the ocean and pebbles for many years.

"I have not been in Highever since the funeral," he says after a while, not certain if Elissa is still there. The chill of the damp air makes him pull the cloak tighter around his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest to keep the warmth in.

And he has kept so many silences over the years that he has to struggle to put his thoughts into words. _It's far too much for one person to contain_ , Sister Ailis told him once, talking about what Loghain's father had told her of their past. She had told him this again, more urgently, after the rebellion was done and Loghain found himself incapable to telling her even a fraction of the things he had done.

But he has found that she was right.

Maric used other people, let them lend him their ears while he spun tales and myths, dropped hints and scraps of facts – this is what we did, this is how we did it - with his contagious charisma and that self-deprecating smile, so well-rehearsed after a few years that Loghain only turned away.

Rowan, he learned years after her death, wrote everything down.

"I had forgotten." Elissa _is_ there, right by his side; their arms are brushing against each other. "My mother and I were staying with relatives in South Reach. Father said it was... oh, you know."

Going through his memories of that occasion, Loghain only faintly remember the guests.

"It was all arranged very quickly?"

He had been summoned to the Coastlands almost ritually for several months by then, each letter as urgent as the next one, but this time it had been the actual thing; Maric's body had floated ashore with the bodies of the few guards he had brought with him and Loghain had confirmed it, bowed over a barely human-looking King of Ferelden.

"Yes."

Loghain had refused all suggestions that involved bringing the body back to Denerim. Stubbornly and to a fault, of course, judging by many reactions. The nobles and their retinues had marched to Highever instead, on his orders, to partake in the burial of their king.

"He should not have been on that ship," he says, not meeting Elissa's gaze that he feels on his face. Maric would not have been on that ship if he had still trusted Loghain, if he had had the sodding decency of listening to the man he made his right hand and allowed him to alter the idea. At some point, Loghain recalls not without shame, he had offered to go himself. Maric had met that with the only possible reaction - a bitter laugh.

"Was he travelling to meet the empress?"

"He was." Loghain keeps his eyes on the horizon. "Maric entertained the idea that we ought to extend our... diplomatic endeavours."

Elissa hums in agreement. "I remember. It wasn't among his most popular ideas."

"No, it was not."

She shifts where she stands, probably as frozen as he is.

"Maric did not want to be remembered only for his war," he says, voice fading a little.

Now that is all he will be remembered by, Loghain knows with a jolt of pain unlike the physical one of the last few days. The rebel prince who waged a bloody rebellion on the oppressors, drove them out and trusted the commoner made teyrn who later threw the country into another bloody war. He can see the history books being written already. Immortalised in ink.

Loghain shrugs, trying to brush away the stiff posture and the bone-hard thoughts; he turns his head somewhat and notices that the woman next to him is watching him with a unfamiliar and unreadable expression in her face.

"He won't be," Elissa states, firmly, with a certainty only someone who is either very brilliant or very stupid can possess. He has not decided which it is in her case.

"Perhaps not," he says, trying to bring himself to agree.

* * *


	10. The lights in the shadow

This has always been her favourite room in the castle.

Not even Aldous' endless tutoring sessions, or the giggling, regular outbreaks of servant girls being felt up by blushing knights between the shelves, had managed to in any way diminish Elissa's love for the castle library.

It's also the only thing Howe hasn't completely discarded after the coup. She notices some shelves are missing – probably those that were damaged that night – and the section of volumes chronicling the Cousland family line has disappeared, but most of the other tomes are intact. Not even Howe or his underlings were foolish enough not to see the value of a well-kept library, she supposes.

Elissa sits in the middle of it tonight, perched on a desk with one leg on the chair in front of her, the other dangling in the air. It has been a day of avoidance and moderation as the returning nobles have been visiting to pay Fergus their respects and she has been holding her tongue and perfecting her Warden neutrality. There's still noise from the newly installed servants who flutter about in the corridors, struggling to bring order to the castle after the banns have left; she sighs, picking up a stray tendril of hair and tucks it behind her ear. Half-heartedly she turn over the leaves of _Tales of the Fereldan Rebellion_ as narrated by Ser Locke of the King's Guard.

" _They raised their arms in victory and in celebration of their general who rode in front of them, across the River Dane. Even the dragons rose in joy as the Orlesians lay bloody and defeated on the ground-"_

"You will be in one of those, someday."

Fergus' hand on her shoulder is warm through the much too thin summer tunic – all of her warmer pieces of clothing are packed for the ship that leaves in three days. He smells faintly of leather and something sweet, likely brandy. When she leans into his touch she thinks of leaving him soon, leaving him _here_ , the last of their line with no other choice than to start all over again and she can feel her stomach twist a little. He will need to restore so much. He must reassembly the nobility and bring them into line even if half of them may hate _her_ for sparing Loghain and there will be talk, so much sodding gossip and Fergus is her _brother_ and she would kill anyone who tried to hurt him, snap their necks in a heartbeat. Except she will be in Orlais and he will be here with talking darkspawn and a handful of Wardens.

Battling the urge to turn around and hug him, Elissa sighs.

"Tales of the Hero of Ferelden?"

He chuckles. "Why not?"

"No, you are probably correct."

"Of course I am."

"And most of the tales will be false speculation and myth," she mutters, flipping another page between her fingers until she is greeted by the colourful painting of the Hero of the River Dane. He stares at her from the book, distorted in a ridiculous pose she is certain he has never adopted in his life.

Fergus is quiet but the grip around her shoulder tightens.

"They can't write the truth." She snaps the tome shut, shrugging.

"I sincerely doubt you have done things that are too awful to be written down," Fergus says; but it's more a question than a statement and Elissa feels it creep into her bones, a cold dread carrying the facts and figures of the past year. "You did what you had to do."

"Yes."

He is _right_ , Elissa knows that he is right but there are nonetheless things that fall between duty and necessity, things that matter, too, even in times like these. And it's the moments of hesitation sometimes, moments where hesitation should not be possible: moments like the harsh, unforgiving Deep Roads and everything she lost there, the political games and the disastrous ritual, the convenient way of throwing all honour aside for no good reason. That is what echoes dully in her blood. She must let it go, but the only way out is through the fire.

"I have fought in a war, too, Elissa," he says softly. "I know that there are no heroes outside the fairy tales. But people need to believe in something."

He has rounded on her now, leaning against the chair and searching for her gaze. Elissa rubs her forehead, wishing she had a drink of something strong enough to make Highever seem bearable.

"I crowned a back-stabbing tyrant in Orzammar," she says, looking at her own hands. Once, they were being forced to learn how to play her mother's harp, how to dance over the strings in ways that always seemed impossible. They are broad and calloused now, full of scars and scabs. "Because his opponent had a weaker support from the Assembly. Do you know what his first decision as a king was? To let the opponent hang."

"That is not exactly an unusual procedure," Fergus points out, calmly.

She shakes her head, not as much in disagreement as in disbelief. "I considered having golems in my army even after I found out how they are made – they take living dwarves and trap them in stone, Fergus, and I _considered_ it for a few minutes because they would add considerable strength to my cause. Just as I considered not fighting the cursed werewolves in the Brecilian forest but allowing _them_ to fight for _me_."

He still looks at her, she notices when she glances up at him.

"We used blood magic in Redcliffe." Elissa straightens her back, feeling like a confessor before the priest. _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to your approval._ She always did excel at the religious studies, to everyone's disbelief. "It was my decision not to find mages that could help us; I decided we did not have the time required for that."

"I heard," Fergus rakes a hand through his hair that is getting entirely too unkempt for a teyrn. "I must have been awful. Eamon does not seem to blame you for it, however."

"No, he has enough on his plate as it is," she says, unable to keep the frosty notes out of her voice when she speaks of that man. "He does blame me for not becoming Alistair's queen. As you may have heard, too. As does Alistair himself, I think."

"Ah. Yes," Fergus says. "Anora is a fine regent, however. Most would agree."

"She is. And yes, they would."

He seems to think of how to word the next question, his face scrutinizing hers.

"Would you have done it? If two Wardens on the throne had not been political suicide, I mean."

Once, she would have hesitated _here_. Now she shakes her head, because some things certainly change.

"No. I mean... the rumours of our _entanglement_ or what it is that they call it, are true but-"

"Affair, I believe the gossip mongers say." Fergus flashes a sarcastic half-smile her way. She has missed those, has almost forgotten he used to _be_ like that.

"Oh, of course. Our _affair_ aside, I would make a poor queen." She grimaces a little, putting the book down beside her, fingers tracing the ornate front of it, her nails scraping over the faded colours. "Subtlety has never been my forte."

"You would be a _forceful_ queen," he says, clearing his throat as though he's trying to rid himself of the amusement at the idea of Elissa as the Queen of Ferelden. Another childhood dream discarded before she even reached marriageable age. "Not necessarily a poor one. Although you would rile up the banns a bit too much, I think."

This is the unspoken truth between them, the silent code of their family: that Fergus is too little of a powerful leader and that Elissa is too much. Of everything. Bryce's little spitfire, still playing the man. Eleanor's little disappointment, still unmarried. She shrugs it away, replaces it with a deep breath.

"You certainly have had an adventurous year, little sister."

Her brother smiles again, warmer now. And there's a trace of concern there too, a way of tilting his head slightly as though he is looking for ways inside the things she does not tell him. Elissa squares her shoulders.

"Yes." She tries to return his smile. "You could call it that."

"You are the bravest, most amazing person I know." Fergus' face transforms instantly from kind to decisive as he looks sternly at her, towering in front of the desk, his hands on her shoulders. There's a glimpse of their father in his eyes and it almost makes it difficult to breathe. She misses that particular detail so much - his fatherly, berating look. "You _had_ to be tough; you needed to make the decisions nobody else would make, and you made them not for your own benefit but for others. All you have done has been for the rest of us, Elissa. You _do_ realise this, don't you?"

Elissa rests in his reassuring gaze for a second, feeling hit by something warm and sweet that falls right into place inside her, like it has been missing without her even noticing.

"I do," she says eventually.

"Good," Fergus lets go of her; one of his hands ruffling her hair before he folds his arms across his chest.

"I _really_ hate it when you do that." Scowling, Elissa brushes back the tousled ponytail and fastens the strands he managed to let loose.

Fergus laughs. "I know."

He walks up to the window, while Elissa leans back on her hands, taking in the view of the room. It is getting dark.

All the shadows in here, all of the scents and the sounds and the very dust in the books, all of it remembers a rebellious girl who wished she had been born a boy, a girl who was climbing too high and screaming too loudly and who dreamed of kings and rebels as her heroes. There is nothing left of her.

And for the first time it feels like a relief.

"Oh, this reminds me. I came to tell you that Loghain was looking for you," Fergus says suddenly, still facing the window.

"Did he say why?"

"Does he usually?"

Elissa tilts her head back, her laughter caught between a sigh and snort. "No."

"I thought not."

"Well," she says, "he can't wait for a bit."

"You were worried about him," Fergus says then, simply. They both know what he refers to.

"Yes," Elissa replies. She was. His injuries had left her cold with dread. "I've caused enough death for a lifetime."

"So has he, I imagine."

"He has."

Fergus turns around at the sound of footfalls at the entrance, where a young servant girl carrying candles appears, looking flushed and confused, likely expecting the room to be empty.

"I-I'm so sorry, Your Grace," she squeaks, and with her head bowed she makes a run for the corridor, but Fergus calls out before she has disappeared out of earshot.

"Do come in and finish your job, girl! I won't bite."

Seconds later she reappears, cheeks red. "Thank you, Your Grace."

And this, Elissa thinks to herself, is the reason she has never wanted any ladies in waiting.

The girl scurries to the central chandelier and places the lit candle there, then she quickly begins to light the others. Upon finishing this task she curtseys in front of Fergus.

"Pardon, Your Grace."

"Yes, thank you."

As she leaves, Elissa can't help but notice that her brother looks as frustrated as she would have been, which is quite alarming.

"She's young," she reminds him. "And just arrived. Give her time to settle down."

"Oh, I know, I know." Fergus scratches the back of his head, smoothing out the frown with a small grin. "So. I still can't convince you to switch? I could use a holiday in Val Royaeux."

Elissa snorts. "And I could do with staying here, helping Loghain sort out this Order of ours."

The room seems very quiet when neither of them speak for a while, the air swallowed up by the lack of voices.

"You put a lot of trust in him," Fergus says eventually. There is no blame or reproach in the tone, merely curiosity.

"I do, I suppose." She crosses her legs, leaning forward. The thoughts of Loghain are slipping through her mind like threads of silk, some of them out of reach, others stranded where she can find them and pick them up. "He made promises and I have no doubt he intends to keep them. I think... all the things he did... he has a lot of regrets. This _is_ his chance at atonement."

And as she words form, she realises they are true. She has spoken them before, thought them before, but tonight they are _true_. As an insight, it is as strange as anything else about that man, and as naturally, too. Elissa looks over at her brother. Peering across the room the light from the chandelier makes the shadows seem deeper, warmer.

Fergus nods. "I will be grateful for all help he can offer, then."

"I will let him know." She slides down from the desk. "Thank you for the motivational speech, big brother."

He grins at the sound of a term of endearment she hasn't used for years and Elissa feels a bit lighter as she walks out.

.

.

.

.

He has stayed out of sight in his chamber and outside, in the dead garden, all day.

It is an all but hopeless attempt at remaining unnoticed by the small number of banns who have been reached by the news of the returning teyrn. A mission as hopeless as being a ghost in Denerim, but he had tried back then, too.

With all the visitors gone, Loghain feels less like a holed up animal.

Outside the small chantry, the lights are burning on the walls; it reminds him of the one in Gwaren, a room he had not visited often but where Celia spent hours upon hours. When she was gone he had imagined he could even _scent_ her in there, among the incense and candles.

This room has a different smell, a touch of damp stone and salt water. He slumps down on one of the benches near the altar.

He feels her approach even before he can hear the thuds of boots and the rhythmical pacing of her walk – whatever her goal, she does not pass slowly, she strides and tramps – and leans back in his seat, feeling a peculiar need to _brace_ himself.

She enters without speaking to him, without even acknowledging his presence; she walks up to the statuettes and books as though inspecting them, making certain they are still there.

"We need to discuss the strategy for how to best employ the Wardens in the north," he states, bluntly when it has been quiet for a very long time.

"Yes," she says, nodding. "We do."

Having picked up a necklace of some kind, she looks at him, making her way to where he is sitting.

"If your ship is leaving in a few days then this is all the more reason to involve your brother in the plans, as soon as possible." Loghain can feel his own sentences as dissonances in here; Elissa's glance in his direction tells him she is not going to bring out her maps and quills.

"I used to hide under these benches during the services." She speaks evenly, there's a enhanced clarity her voice tonight, he notices, as though she has had a drink or a potion. But her eyes look sober as she sits down beside him. "Mother Mallol was a lovely tutor when we were alone but I hated listening. And the crowds."

She looks at him, awaiting a response.

The words are not there, Loghain finds, there is nothing he can think of saying that isn't worthless in this place; nothing coming from his lips that will bring any form of consolation or offer anything but more pain. The castle is reining him in. It resembles the time in the Palace when Maric – and Loghain, in his own twisted, speechless form of grief that got stuck like a swelling in his throat because he had no _right_ to it - mourned Rowan and later, when Cailan mourned the father Maric had never been and Loghain had walked the corridors like a shadow. He had wanted to comfort his friend the way Maric would claim he _could_ , back when they were different people. He had wanted to be of _use_ , but he was not. Everything he did and everything he said drove them further apart. And he grieved _that_ , too, pathetically.

"That night... " Elissa rubs a spot on her neck and grimaces a little. "When the soldiers marched off she was in here, praying for them. I... didn't join her."

He doesn't say anything in response to that either.

"I wonder what became of – well, I suppose there is not much to wonder about, is there?"

"She may yet be alive," Loghain offers, lifting his head somewhat. His entire body is sore, chafing against the truth of what has happened here. Being here is overwhelming. Everything he has done, one thing after the other like a chain of history, seems to seek him out in this place where he can't outrun it. "You don't know that."

"It is unlike you to expect the best."

"When I took Maric with me to my father's camp," he says, finally speaking, hearing the words in his own head. "He was followed by the Orlesians that killed the Rebel Queen."

She nods. "You told me, before. Just after Landsmeet."

He has forgotten. There are days before and after that where his memory doesn't serve him, where the usual paths and lines are broken and replaced by cloud-like fog, or dark spots. While it is likely for the best, the mere idea of having simply _lost_ it makes him furious.

"I thought you were farmers?" Elissa holds up the necklace in the candlelight, momentarily, then she tilts her head to look at him from a different angle.

"Outlaws." He sighs. "My father kept us on the run; he provided for us and plenty of others who followed. There was a priest among those. Mother Ailis."

Elissa frowns. "Wasn't she serving Maric in the Palace for many years?"

"She was, yes."

Loghain had found no reason to condemn her to the forests of Gwaren; he had also thought, foolishly, that where he failed to reach his old friends, she would succeed. He knows she tended a lot to Cailan, but not even that seemed to have had much bearing upon the boy's ideas.

They fall silent again, he is assembling words for things he has not spoken of in so long the events themselves seem like inane stories a bard would tell, too subdued and at the same time too gaudy for having been lived through. She seems to be waiting.

"The soldiers found us, of course," he continues. "They stormed the camp. We had been lingering for too long because of Maric's injuries."

Elissa nods, still quiet on the bench beside him. She runs the necklace over her fingers and touching the small beads and the strand of metal rhythmically, as though she hears a tune in there somewhere.

"My father made me swear I would protect the prince and guard him through the forest, see that he was safe. He himself stayed behind."

Loghain has little idea why he is telling her this, why this pathetic narrative of his past has surfaced tonight and he has a good mind to take it back somehow when Elissa's gaze finds his own. She looks, of all things, _grateful_.

"Nearly all of them must have died instantly. I thought they had, for the following years." He remembers the gradual shift of focus, still. How he had started out with no other thought than to _return_ , as though he would be able to track them and there would be something left to return to. How he had felt the obligation to take over his father's self-assumed leadership, even if he would never have been able to offer the same amount of protection and safety, especially not back then, as the arrogant brat he had been. But the duty had been there, not leaving his mind until he was kneeling in front of Maric. Loghain shifts in his seat, suddenly less at ease talking about this.

"But they weren't all gone," Elissa fills in; he realises he has fallen silent.

"No," he says, "They weren't. After the coronation, I found Ailis alive. She had managed to flee. No doubt thanks to my father."

"You must have been angry when he sent you away."

"I was." Loghain sneers, feeling the outlines of the boy he had been still there in his bones.

"I was furious with my father, too." She shakes her head. "All he wanted was for me to save myself and our family but I felt like he _sold_ me, as if it was a sodding horse-trade."

When he couldn't bear to blame his father, Loghain had blamed Maric. For a long time and without being able to stop, not even with other things blending into their uneasy comradeship, wrapping themselves around his stale hatred and grief, had he been able to look at the prince and not feel bitter resentment.

But Maric had never accepted Loghain's hatred of anything, not back then and not later on; he had poked and pried and provoked without end, simply _kept_ at it. And that was the sort of friend he was. While the initial bond between them was forged out of coercion and urgency, Maric seemed dissatisfied with merely liking Loghain as well as you can be expected to like someone who reluctantly saves your life. He had _insisted_ on being Loghain's friend. And Loghain had no weapons against that frank kindness, no defences in the face of Maric's want to do right by him even though Loghain had spent every night for months wishing the bloody prince would die gruesomely.

"Did you forgive him?"

Her question catches him a bit off-guard. It seems to reverberate against the walls in the chantry, before landing within him.

"My father? There was nothing to forgive. He gave his life, the least I could do was to risk my own."

"I meant Maric." She is under his skin now, and she seems to know it because she looks away. "I'm sorry, that was intrusive."

As a young man, Loghain had faulted his father for the compassion and the decency he always showed others, his tendency to forgive instead of punish and his sometimes overly accepting habit of allowing less desirable elements into their group. Then he spent the entire rebellion looking for the same traits in himself, only to find that they were missing, or deformed and twisted at the back of his mind.

Forgiveness has always seemed impossible to him, like a task that requires too much – too much forgetting, too much blind foolishness.

"Maric did nothing that demanded forgiveness," he says, after a while. It is not an answer and not the whole truth but it is the only answer he will offer, all the same.

She seems to find what she sought in these words, because she grows silent beside him. Loghain looks straight ahead, stretching out his legs and observing the painting of Andraste's warriors amassing. It's a rare motif to find in a chantry. He has seen the insides of quite a few, despite having no faith to speak of.

"He must have," she says, then. "Or he would not have managed to take the throne."

"Well," Loghain retorts, sharper now, pushing back memories. "Then he has answered for that before the Maker, I am certain."

Elissa raises an eyebrow. "And comfort is only Yours to give."

The escaped canticle line sounds different in her voice, she speaks the words with a certain obstinacy; they roll off her tongue. Perhaps the Orlesian heretic has influenced her in this, too.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"People have the right to forgive each other, you know." She turns in her seat, facing him now. "And people have the right to be forgiven."

"That's a generous ideal," he snaps, stifling a groan.

"Is it?" Elissa appears genuinely interested in hearing his answer.

"The only ones who can forgive are already dead and the ones who live don't have the luxury of forgetting," he says, echoing someone else, from a different life. He no longer remembers who or when.

" _I_ live. And I won't ever forget. But I forgive you," she says.

The sensation of her hand over the back of his own startles him a little, and then the words sink in, which is even stranger. He meets her gaze, the glint in it absolutely honest and utterly _inexplicable._

"Why on _earth_ would you do that?" he asks, incredulously, his own voice like a harsh breath in his ears.

And at that her lips form a faint smile that looks relieved, like she is driving something out of herself and into the air between them. She _smiles_ at him and he is certain he has never seen her smile like that before. It tugs at something long gone and soundly buried and he shuffles the thoughts, readjusting them again.

He looks at her as she rises to her feet, tucking the necklace into her pocket.

"Tomorrow morning," she states over her shoulder when she walks to the door, "Great hall. Strategy. We keep it between ourselves and Fergus for the time being, don't you think?"

"I agree," he says, but she has already left the room.


	11. Someone else's reasons

"I trust everything is prepared for tomorrow, Commander?"

Elissa looks up from her raid at the leftover foods in the kitchen, to see Cauthrien standing in the entrance, leaning against the wall and observing her. They are certainly not meant to be in here, either of them, but the servants are still clearing the dining hall and only occasionally running past this room, trying to conceal their displeasure at being interrupted in their routines by cheeky betters.

"It is." She adds a smile, remembering Cauthrien's steadfast service over the past month. "Thank you."

Between them is the unspoken mission. It is what the stern woman in the doorway wants to know about and it is what Elissa can't bring herself to tell, not now. Not here. Elissa doesn't know what Loghain has told her on his part, or what the Queen might have revealed. She makes a mental note to take her time to sit down with Cauthrien in private once they have left the coast; with only one Orlesian – and not exactly the brightest one – to be concerned about, not to mention the vast amount of time on their hands, they will have this discussion.

"And the Coastlands will be safely seen to, I assume?"

"It will have four Wardens in its service," Elissa replies, picking up half a loaf of bread and examining it before nearly putting it back again, but spotting Cauthrien's glare before she has completed the motion. She places it on her plate instead.

"That seems a very small number, considering-"

"And yet it is one more than the whole of Ferelden had during the Blight."

Elissa knows the stories of what happened in the north during the civil war. Good men and women punished for doing their duty, banns fleeing and banns abandoning their sworn oaths because of the unjust regency causing discord. It's a slowly churning wheel of discomfort and _hurt_ being here, for all of them, she has come to understand. All of them pressed against the past, with little to offer each other in terms of escape except living it through. Walk through the fire, Mother Mallol would call it.

Not that Cauthrien strikes her as the praying sort.

Or the sort to hold regrets, either, but even so there's a sharp edge to her presence here, a little note of something they will not speak of.

Her face closes now, her voice tautening. "I see your point, Commander."

"Besides," Elissa says, "I trust Loghain to do whatever it takes."

Cauthrien snorts, barely audibly. She wears gauntlets indoors, for some reason, and does so tonight as well. Elissa hears the metallic noise they make as Cauthrien shifts her weight or change position.

"He will," Cauthrien says, finally. There's a wistfulness appearing in the cracks between the words, though Elissa doesn't know her well enough to interpret it better than that.

"We will be successful. And I'm sure we shall be able to return to Ferelden soon enough."

This false optimism doesn't suit her and she isn't certain where she has found it. She sounds like Cailan at Ostagar. Elissa winces, turning her head momentarily. When she looks back at the other woman, she notices Dog has found them. He glances sidelong at Cauthrien, as though he is still evaluating the new members of their flock, before coming to Elissa's side.

"Alistair will certainly spare more than enough soldiers as well; I have notified him of the darkspawn presence in the north," she adds, in the same unsuitable spirit she seems unable to rid herself of.

"Very well, Commander." Cauthrien nods curtly. "Goodnight then."

"Goodnight," Elissa says, knowing neither of them will sleep until they are on that ship.

At least _she_ will not.

For three nights now they have not done much beside reading, looking over maps and discussed the territorial and political sections of the Coastland. They have wrapped their hands around the darkspawn problem, wrought it and tore it apart and shaped it into something resembling a coherent thought. The rest of the Wardens have participated, of course, but Elissa has always slipped back into Loghain's room once they have parted ways for the evening, always adjusted the ideas with him only.

It is, in the end, a matter of power. Orlais is still intact, the Blight merely brushed past its borders and they can afford motives beyond survival and restoration and this, more than anything else, is what makes them dangerous. The Fereldan Order is still no more than two Warden strong, faltering in every comparison, so they hold on to each other, without reserve and out of necessity.

And out of _choice,_ these too-late nights when she knows she won't sleep and knows that he will be awake and willing to hear her sleep-deprived rant about potential recruits and dangers. There's a frantic need in her; a forceful tug at her heart and mind to close the circle, finish things and tweak the damned uncertainties into solid, warm reassurance and half the sentences in her head begin with _if I don't return_.

"If I don't return, remember that I shall haunt your every _moment_ in the Fade should you marry Lady Hertha," she tells Fergus, ignoring his slightly wounded gaze at those words.

"If I don't return," she tells Dog who refuses to hear the rest of that sentence and spurts off in the opposite direction every time she tries.

"If I don't return, the Order must survive," she tells Loghain, grateful that he, at least, merely nods.

If I don't return, she tells herself, I have at least done my part.

There's nothing dangerous about this, of course.

(Nobody has ever set course for Orlais and not reached the shore.)

She will not be in any peril.

(The Orlesian Order is tightly manipulated by the Empress whose chevaliers were being pushed back and killed at the border.)

Shrugging off the pathetic anxiety, Elissa grabs a grape from a bowl and bites down on it.

Loghain's retreated early tonight, after a big supper with the lot of them; it was a feast for her journey, even if nobody spoke of the fact that they were all there solely because the ship leaves shortly after dawn. After all the goodbyes this year, it is surprisingly difficult to say goodbye to Highever.

There is still a comparatively rich selection of food in the kitchen, especially considering the circumstances. Elissa makes another mental note. This time it is to remind Fergus to compliment the new matron and the cook and -. She almost finishes the thought before remembering that this is no longer her place – like it _ever_ was, she has not been able to tell servants apart for most of her life. Now, when she is leaving it behind, she is suddenly a teyrna in her own mind.

She shakes her head, irritated with herself and returns to the task at hand: _food_.

With nobody watching, she puts the bread back again and picks up dried fruit and fried fish so tender and so well cooked that the buttery surface is starting to melt, running along and in between her fingers as she tries to bring the fish to her plate. Wiping it off on her tunic, she snatches cheese and walnuts, too, and takes the last slices of the boar. Dog, sitting expectantly at her feet, gets a piece of a calf's head.

Remembering Loghain's preference for dried figs – odd for a man who claims to dislike sweet flavours – she grabs a handful, before walking up to where his guest chamber is located. In her memories it's the room where Lady Brega always stayed, for months sometimes when she needed rest and recovery. Elissa had never quite gasped what Lady Brega required rest and recovery _from_ , but she had gathered over the years that the unspecified reasons among her parents' friends and acquaintances usually concerned violent husbands or various unspeakable diseases. According to her mother, she was better off not knowing about that.

He opens the door to his chambers after her first knock.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?" she asks without preamble.

He is still fully dressed - wearing a linen shirt and trousers – but he has loosened the neckline and taken off the waistcoat since she last saw him at supper. She still has the notion of him as the Teyrn of Gwaren, proper and powerful in his silverite armour or wrapped in fancy clothing at the banquets and feasts; at the same time _this_ is how she sees him when she thinks of him: dressed down or ready for battle. The Teyrn is being washed away, worn down. He seems to welcome it even more than she would have expected.

Loghain steps aside, no longer dropping a sarcastic remark regarding her frequent visits. He is too practical not to see the use of the extensive company, she supposes. And there are moments, however brief and fleeting and likely spurred by wine-induced vanity, when she thinks he _enjoys_ her presence, too.

"I have a favour to ask of you."

It is always best to be clear and honest with him, she has learned. To state the business immediately. He expects the worst otherwise, reads the situation to her disadvantage and that is simply _annoying_ and takes entirely too much of her time. Parsing it from this angle, though, he can be a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist.

Except perhaps not the night before her departure.

"Aside from the fact that I am to sit by and watch obediently as you run headlong into an Orlesian trap, you mean?" he says. The sarcasm in his voice is real. Its origin – concern for the country and the Order and possibly also for her – is real, too. But he isn't vehement about it, that sentiment has been replaced by an irritated acceptance that somehow unsettles her more. "Speak."

Elissa looks at Dog who has curled up in front of the fireplace, chewing at the remaining bone of the treat he was given before.

"You like him, don't you?"

Loghain frowns. "Who?"

"Dog." She puts down the plate on the low table in front of the sofa where Loghain has placed a few old tomes about Warden history as well as a map of Ferelden. Her own vellums and papers are left behind, from last night. When she meets his gaze again it's still puzzled. "I meant to say that you like my dog. And he is very fond of you. So I am going to leave him in your care."

He is quiet for a bit.

"That was not a question," he says eventually. "It was a statement."

"Yes. Well." Elissa shrugs. "Look, I can't really bring a dog with me to Orlais. They will _eat_ him-" She is interrupted by a high-pitched growl from the mabari. "Hush, boy. I have explained this to you already. Orlesians are mean to dogs. Yes, they are. You _want_ to stay here, you would be miserable on a ship and then there would be no decent food for you to eat and no foxes you can hunt."

Dog accepts this once more, undone as ever by lack of foxes, and goes back to his treat with a low snarling sound.

"So," she continues, looking at Loghain now. "We can't imprint him on you, of course, but he should consider you his master now that I am no longer in Ferelden."

The dog barks, confirming this by giving Loghain an approving glance.

"I see."

"You told me once that you had a mabari as a boy." She searches for familiarity in his face, tries to bring out something similar to willingness in his gaze, because this is beginning to feel like a rather foolish idea. "I figured... well, I thought you would be the best choice."

He walks up to Dog and sits on his heels beside him, reaching out a hand to scratch him. After a second of hesitation, Dog looks up and Loghain strokes him over the head. There is something about the entire scene that undoes her, something that softly and quietly strikes at that part of her that she has tucked away, the part that wishes she could escape duty somehow.

"Is there a particular reason you do not leave him here with your brother?" he asks, searching through his pockets for cheese. "He is a Highever dog, after all."

Elissa approaches them, sitting down on the edge of table that creaks under her weight. Dog is too involved in licking Loghain's palm for the last scraps of cheese – and still punishing her for leaving him behind - to take notice of her, which is a decidedly good sign, even if it breaks her heart a little.

"Fergus isn't fond of animals," she says, remembering how he used to throw sticks at the mabari being trained in the castle, claiming it was because they shouldn't get too attached to those who weren't their masters, but Elissa soon found out it was because Fergus was scared of dogs. While he isn't afraid as a grown man, as far as she knows, he has never truly formed any friendships with them. "I would rather he is left in the care of someone who will appreciate his company. He's a fine dog, better suited for battle than herding knights in a castle."

Dog barks at this, proudly.

If Loghain has any objections against the halting logic – the Hero of Ferelden, moreover the Commander of the Grey, could probably bring a small dragon with her to Orlais and convince the natives it was a lovely pet if she put her mind to it – he does not voice them.

"This is an unusual order from a commander." He shakes his head, but he is more amused than disapproving. Dog nudges his arm affectionately.

"I _am_ an unusual commander," Elissa says, smiling.

"That you are."

They look at each other as they are both rising to their feet; turning her head, she notices he has been taking notes while reading the book on the Fereldan Warden rebellion she left. He has a neat hand-writing - she can tell as much without looking too closely - the letters are thin and obedient and smooth. She wonders where a farmer's son learned that. Her own writing is small and cramped, she knows; she has always had problems fitting everything she wants to say within the limited space on the sheets of paper and all her tutors would berate her for it.

"Will you do it, then?" she asks, nodding towards Dog.

Loghain nods, too. "If that is what you think is best, then yes. I will."

"Good." She buries her relief in another smile. "Thank you."

Elissa bends down to pick up the map from underneath the table as Loghain sits down on the sofa, watching her briefly before resuming his reading of the open book. Without even asking, she takes a seat too, reaching for a quill and her old Orlesian books used for her least favourite tutoring sessions.

They don't say anything; they sink into their own private studies. Occasionally one of them reaches for the food on the table, eating it in the same silence. Elissa throws scraps to Dog and Loghain gets up a few times to stir the coals, keeping the flames alive.

 _This_ is a very new habit they have formed since arriving to the castle. No, she corrects herself, it's newer than that – it has formed itself during the past few days, creeping up on her, reminding her that she has not yet got a handle of every relationship in her new life. She does not, for example, know precisely what the boundaries and benefits of _this_ friendship are. If it _is_ a friendship. Loghain has never seemed to approve of the idea. But it is something, and she is thankful for it.

Glancing at him, she wonders if he would much rather be alone at the moment or if she is welcome to stay. Just as the question is about to slip out of her he meets her gaze and raises an eyebrow as he spots her curious stare. Elissa shakes her head, turning her attention back to the text in front of her.

Some things she prefers not to know.

And with the fire spreading a comfortable warmth in the room and with her relaxing in the somewhat worn piece of furniture, Elissa begins to feel the recent lack of sleep in her bones. It becomes tangible here, with nothing else to do with her body but rest.

Her head lacks the will to even _try_ to make up for the physical weariness, too.

 _La bataille est e merveillose, e grant._ Maker's breath, she has managed to forget the dreary old Orlesian words since last she was bent over this, near tears all the time because her mouth could not pronounce what she read and her mind refused its inherit logic. La bataille est e merveillose e grant. Marvellous is the battle now, and grand. And the brave Thibaut raised his sword and field upon field bathed in blood.

_La bataille est e merveillose e hastive._

This is not even the language being _used_ at present. Inside her the brat she used to be is still raging against the futility of being taught dead languages. Yawning, she skips straight to the next verse, but loses track of the meaning so she must return; dragging her eyes over the lines of bleak sentences and faded drawings. The letters are ghosts, she concludes after the third attempt to decipher the first and second strophes. Blurry, grey ghosts spreading out over the paper.

 _Thibaut est e merveillose_ -

And then Thibaut runs through a field of peculiar-looking flowers, all of a sudden, followed by a barking dog. She can feel the scent of roses in the air – it strikes her as wrong since she can actually _see_ no roses, but perhaps they are behind those trees in the distance. As she is about to follow the knight, there is a noise beside her, like someone calling back a dog, a rapping sound echoing in her mind, pulling at it –

"Elissa."

Only half-way out of the Fade, her thoughts continuously being pulled in separate directions by the soft darkness of the dream as well as by the voice speaking to her, Elissa grimaces and pries open her eyes.

" _Elissa_." She has a hand on her shoulder now, someone pushing her backwards and she is about to protest when she realises she has almost fallen forward towards the table. Damn. Her neck creaks faintly as she turns her head and looks into Loghain's face.

"You fell asleep," he says, rather needlessly.

She blinks. And settles, as reason is seeping back into her blood to mitigate the absurdity of sleep. The touch of his hand, cupping her shoulder and the stark sensation of being torn from a different place altogether. Loghain lets go of her.

Elissa winces, rubbing the nape of her neck.

"Did you snap your fingers before?" He snorts at the irritated expression she can feel in her own face. "You did. You _snapped_ your fingers at me."

"It is not generally a good idea to be too close when you wake up people who are used to war," he says, dryly.

"Huh." She sits up straight, rolling her shoulders back and forth to soften them up again; sorting out the last bits of confusion at the same time, the thoughts and ideas slipping back into their places with soft thuds. Like fingertips on skin. "I didn't hit you, though, did I?"

"No, you did not."

Loghain seems amused. Or rather: there is a gash in his grim and closed-off way, that she has come to know as amusement. And she has observed it often enough to be half-certain. When he leans back against the sofa she keeps her eyes on him, observing him now as well, trying to sort him out as swiftly as she just did her thoughts, as though such a thing would even be possible. He has resumed reading, or if he is not reading then at least he has gone back to holding the book with one hand. The other rests on his thigh; his hands, she notices, are scarred and still carrying the faintest touch of summer, the skin running over veins and faded silver lines is not yet winter-pale.

He is a tall man, a head taller than Elissa who is unused to be shorter than other people, and with broad shoulders to match the height; he is in all things built like a warrior and fights like one, even at this age, even after years and years of other duties he has remained muscular, _strong_. And yet she is convinced it is his personality that makes him appear large. It fascinates her to think that someone can be such a presence it affects the way their faces appear to others. Growing up, she always thought of him as sour-looking, with a face made of dull, unrelenting stone. It is not. That much she knows already. He seems different to her now than he did months ago, when he stood before her at the Landsmeet and her mind struggled to adjust its threadbare images - painted in colours of victory and heroism - with the brand new ones of desperation and tyranny.

She knows these little things about him – small things, important things, things that make him a man outside of the myth – and they blend with those stories _everybody_ has heard about Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the facts and figures clashing and explaining all at once.

She has not yet figured out what or how he looks like, with the old being replaced with the new, and this is strangely fascinating.

She wonders, briefly, what colours and shapes she has in _his_ mind.

Elissa is interrupted in her thoughts and her unabashed staring, as Loghain clears his throat, catching her gaze. He puts the book in his lap and looks at her, waiting for a comment or a question if his facial expression is anything to go by.

"That was very dull reading," she offers stupidly to have something to _say_.

"Yes." He _is_ amused, damn him. And she feels strangely at a loss, like she's been caught doing something more intimate than just looking at him. "I understood as much from your snoring."

She scratches at the back of her head, dragging fingers through the tangled hair.

"I read it before, many years ago. My parents wanted me to learn Orlesian... but this is just... can you read it?"

"Orlesian?" Loghain peeks over her shoulder at the _Chanson de Thibaut_ and his brave, fearless adventures among enemies that seem to pour down over him like rain. "Not well."

"Me neither." Elissa snaps the book shut, tipping her head back a little so she can sink further down in her seat. She feels so dreadfully heavy, capable of falling back into the Fade on the spot. The warmth and the subdued colouring of the room does nothing to help either. This room is indeed one of the best in the castle; she recalls hearing her mother saying it ages ago – _let poor Brega have the finest bed_ \- but has not had a reason to reflect on it until now. Perhaps this is the reason poor Brega stayed for entire seasons, sleeping them away in here.

"It is very late," Loghain says evenly, as she struggles to keep her eyes open. "You should retreat to your own bedchamber."

"Are you turning me out?"

"Yes." There's a suggestion of a smile in his face as she yawns and stretches her arms towards the ceiling to prepare herself for the task at hand. It seems like a much better, _warmer_ idea to simply stay precisely where she is. "I cannot imagine you want to be found here by the servants in the morning."

Groaning, she reaches for the spread-out maps and begins to roll them up again. Then she places the largest of them, the one of the Tevinter Imperium, beside Loghain on the sofa.

"Keep that," she says. "In fact, keep all of the maps. I have several in my pack already and I will not be needing road maps of Ferelden for a while."

"You want me to have these?"

"Yes."

He looks suspiciously at the parchment next to him, fingers tracing the worn edges as he picks it up.

"You _do_ intend to come back to Ferelden, I presume?" For the first time today, she can hear something close to the furious disapproval he had initially expressed at the plan.

"I do. Why would I not?" The earnestness in her own voice makes it thick and difficult to manage, so she attempts a half-smile before she leaves.

Loghain does not return it.

.

.

.

.

Elissa has the bleak morning sun in her face as she reaches the harbour.

She has insisted on walking alone, while the rest of the group that set out to send them off has taken a carriage from the castle. A biting cold prickles her skin but the freshness of the air silences the leaden feeling of departure in her stomach, if only momentarily.

Until she sees them all _standing_ there. A front line of people with little weapons other than polite smiles and words of luck and _Maker watch over you_.

Because she is leaving.

"There you are!" Shirei calls out, brightly. Of all of them, she is the only one going home and even if she is well-behaved enough not to parade this, it is noticeable in the pattern of her speech, the way her eyes fall on faces and packs and the ship, towering behind them.

Elissa falls into her place, in front of the group. She lets her own eyes fall upon the faces of the sombre troop that has gathered.

The Orlesians are the first to crowd them.

Smiling, Hawise throws her arms around the mage, kissing both of her cheeks. Hedin, too, kisses her in the same fashion. Whereas Jenner – entirely unsurprisingly – stands a bit on the side, watching the scene.

Neither Hedin nor Hawise pay their farewells to Elissa in any physical way; she adjusts the cloak tighter over her shoulders as the two of them stand before her.

"Be careful, both of you," Hedin says, looking at Elissa and Shirei as well as the small crowd: Cauthrien, Zevran and three knights, silent and surly and hand-picked by Cauthrien - aided by Fergus who still wants Elissa to take at least half the Highever soldiers with her. She has instead opted for an insignificant and forgettable display, hopefully defeating all speculation about her purpose until she has what she needs. Which, she must admit to herself while kicking back the dark, persistent swirls of doubt, is not as clear as it could be.

"We _will_ be careful," she says.

"We promise," Shirei adds, sounding very young. She speaks to her senior Warden from the position of a reverent child and it makes Elissa uncomfortable. So much for the absence of hierarchies in the order.

"I have no intention of _not_ returning," Elissa points out, the conversation from last night fresh in her body.

"Maker knows I will strangle you if you don't." Fergus has made his way over to her now; the Orlesians take a collective step back.

"It's not the bloody Anderfels, Fergus." She tucks her bare hands into the pockets of her winter trousers, the thick leather feeling rough against her legs.

"Even so." He observes her, his face serious and marked by a wrinkle of worry between his eyes. "I can't pretend to like this."

"I know." She smiles, defiantly. "Just remember what I've told you. And do not hesitate to ask Alistair for more troops. He will be in tune with the darkspawn threat as it is, all you need to do is give him notice-"

"Elissa, I _know_ ," Fergus shakes his head. "You have told me this several times already. I know it by heart. And your general over there will be here to remind me, should I forget something terribly important. A phrasing or perhaps a stray word-"

"Don't _joke_ about this-" she begins, but is interrupted efficiently with a hug. For a second she allows herself to lean into it, feel her numb momentum melt a little around the edges as her brother's arms hold her tight. As soon as he releases her, she slips back into steely resolve. It feels like it takes a bit of her heart, every time she has to do it.

"You will be missed." Fergus says with a small, inwardly sigh. He turns his head a bit to look at the mentioned protection. "At least you have excellent protection."

"Count on it, Your Grace." Cauthrien bows formally. She glares at Zevran beside her, as though her mere disdain would make him bow with her.

"Ah, yes." He nods, arms folded across his chest, sounding every bit as bored as Elissa knows he is. "We shall... prevail?"

" _Fool_ ," Cauthrien mouths discreetly.

"Such harsh words, ser knight," Zevran retorts in a normal voice, which makes her scowl deepen even further. It is going to be a long journey. "And in front of company, too. Tsk, tsk."

Cauthrien looks like she could drop a lifetime of discipline and honour and behead the elf on the spot. Fergus seems to notice that, too, because he turns away slightly, a ghost of a grin threading his lips.

"Zevran," Elissa says finally employing a tone she has refined over the course of these past months.

He interrupts himself with a shrug, shooting her a wicked smile and she has to stifle her own. She is suddenly glad he is coming along; for all his faults and stupid habits he is a _good_ fighter and a skilled assassin and - when he is not too busy staring at it - he has her back, because she has his respect. Zevran is above all else a survivor. She can't have enough of those.

"Thank you, ser," Fergus places his hand on Cauthrien's shoulder.

The crowd has eased, people scattering to board the ship and the knights are already carrying the packs along the pier. Elissa turns to the remaining company.

Dog sits hesitantly in front of Loghain, titling his head to watch the master who is about to break his heart. She bites down on a whine, of the same kind that Dog usually lets out when he is miserable. For years he has been wherever she goes; her shadow and her friend, not to mention her bodyguard. Leaving a mabari is no simple feat – she had assumed him dead as she woke up in Flemeth's hut, yet the first thing that met her on the road, as they took up the trail, was Dog fighting his way through darkspawn hordes to return to her. It is probably a good thing they are separated by an ocean and a temporary master, this time.

"You look after him now," she says, burying her hands in thick mabari fur and breathing in his scent. "Keep him safe."

"Have I not already told you that I will?" Loghain asks, a bit impatiently.

But as Elissa looks into Dog's eyes and Dog barks conversationally, she knows he has understood the direction of that command better than his human general. He licks the back of her hand once, too, for good measure and for underlining his point.

Good boy, she tells him mutely, by nuzzling her face against his head. I will be safe, too, you see. I promise. It's like when I went to Fort Drakon without you and promised to return. I returned then and I will now. You can trust me; I would never abandon you, would I?

Dog barks once more, a little sadder this time but still in agreement, before positioning himself at Loghain's side.

Elissa stands up, meeting Loghain's gaze. It is unreadable and solid and she can take comfort in it, grateful for the opportunity. They watch the others disappear, leaving the three of them alone. She knows it is very close now, the ship will be leaving shortly.

"You are the Commander of the Fereldan Wardens until I return, then." She has certainly developed a bad habit of stating the obvious, as of late.

"So it appears."

"I'll keep in touch," she says, ignoring the voices calling for her. "Shirei claims the Warden messengers are quite fast and have a well-functioning service even across borders. I will instruct you further once I know more."

"Very well," he replies, looking over her shoulder at the waiting mission. "I think they want you to hurry."

"Yes. _If_ I don't return, Loghain," she says quietly. "You will know what to do."

He looks at her darkly for a moment, then he nods. Elissa places her hand on his arm, a little awkwardly, trying to form suitable words, but can't find any so she merely smiles what she hopes is her most reassuring smile.

And quickly turns on her heel, before she can change her mind.  
  
  
  


* * *

 **AN:**

The quotes in old French is from _Chanson de Roland._ Sneakily disguised here as an Orlesian hero.


	12. Keep Ithaca in your mind

* * *

**CARTOGRAPHY**

**-PART TWO-**   
  


_for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)_

_it is always ourselves that we find in the sea_

**maggie and milly and molly and may – e.e cumming** s  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The sea smashes at the ship like a warning.

One loud, _violent_ warning rocking them back and forth in its grip for as long as the wave lasts, then grants them a moment's peace. Before it starts over again.

Elissa has quickly come to hate the sea.

The corridors here smell thickly of salt and sweat and the quarters are cramped; Elissa shares one with Cauthrien, having opted for it in the choice between her and Shirei, thinking mostly of comfortable silence versus constant chatter. Not that it matters much, since they are all pressed up against each other in this moving spot, with so little space to themselves that it feels like even their thoughts are being crowded. Elissa would much rather be on the deck, cold and storm be damned, but every time she stands up she is hit by the desire to crawl back under her sheet and die.

It's a winter's storm out there tonight, a frothing, hissing monster beneath the waves that keeps tossing the ship in all directions at once. And she is not even frightened for their safety – there is no _need_ , both Shirei and Zevran assure the Fereldan landlubbers – because she is too preoccupied curling up on her narrow straw pallet and keeping her stomach's content down.

There's very little dignity in being sick as a dog and the only comfort, twisted as it may be, is that she is not alone. By her side, stoic and pale as a ghost, Cauthrien lies, staring at the bucket on the floor as though she could order it to not be needed. Perhaps she can; she seems to be slightly better off than Elissa who is presently as strong and heroic as a washed out blotch on the damp sheet.

"The potion should have effect very soon, if you can just keep it down," Shirei enlightens them, from the small doorway where she stands with a small basket hanging from the crook of her elbow.

"How soon is soon?" Elissa asks, very carefully shifting position. It proves to be a bad idea.

"Just give it a moment."

Cauthrien mutters something inaudible from across the room.

The mage chuckles. "So neither of you have been on a ship before?"

"No. _Look_ , you are a mage. You must know _spells_ -"

"I'm a _battlemage_ , Elissa." She still has the same amused tone, but a slight touch of wounded pride is creeping into it. All mages are sensitive about their specific powers, Elissa remembers, with an inward sigh. Magic seems such a fleeting, irresponsible sort of ally. But she keeps her mouth shut about _that_. "I know about as much healing magic as you do cooking."

"I hope you _do_ know more about herbalism," Cauthrien sighs. She has pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, almost over her head so the words come out muffled. "No offence, Commander."

"None taken." Elissa dares placing a hand over her stomach, imagining she can feel her insides protest against the soft touch.

"It's a simple decoction of ginger and elfroot; I am certain I have managed it," Shirei says, smiling at them both. "Works for all sorts of nausea. You shall see. But now I think I've outworn my welcome."

Only politeness refrains Elissa from vocally agreeing.

"Why is she always so bloody cheerful?" Cauthrien asks once Shirei has finally granted them the luxury of being alone – and even told Zevran not to come and gloat, Elissa hears from the muffled sounds escaping from the corridor. That's truly for the best; she can't stand the idea of listening to any more of the murderous banter between him and Cauthrien.

"She's Orlesian." Elissa grimaces and loosens her grip of the bucket, hoping it will not jinx the nausea to well up again. "She doesn't know better."

A sound stuck between a snort of amusement and one of irritation fills the small space.

"Are you not supposed to have a code of loyalty and honour amongst yourselves?" Cauthrien asks then, sharply. Ever the dutiful one.

"Oh, _indeed_." Elissa rolls her eyes. "I barely know these people. They are strangers, darkspawn blood or not. Loyalty should be earned."

"Is that so?" Cauthrien replies but does not press the matter any further.

Checking herself before she has added _and they are_ _Orlesian,_ Elissa stretches out her arms in the air, shaking some life into them after they have spent the whole day curled around her mid-section, as a vastly useless shield. She has started to sound like Loghain, the threads of suspicion and paranoia slithering into her mind effortlessly by now and just like him -

 _Damn_ , she thinks, rebuking herself harshly.

She has deliberately _not_ thought about anything in Ferelden for several days. As the ship passed Jader, she had briefly thought about writing to Fergus but decided to postpone it until the prospect of doing so doesn't make her homesick like a pathetic child; she she has not allowed herself to think about Loghain either because that means thinking about all the dangers in Highever and darkspawn and the recruiting and Dog and if she truly had remembered to go over _everything_ with Loghain before she left.

Cauthrien is only here because of him, of course, so his shadow is falling over the pallets and the scantly worded truce, always between them.

Between them, still, is also the Landsmeet.

It's that short, remarkable moment when Cauthrien surrendered, and later the memory of it, turning in Elissa's head. It had seemed like an impulse, a sudden realisation that the battle was lost but Elissa understands now, much later, that it had been happening all year. In fractions and seconds for months, Cauthrien had left Loghain's side, _tearing_ herself away.

Elissa will never forget the image of Cauthrien kneeling, lowering her weapon and _kneeling_ , to finally plead with the ones she was set to defeat. It is almost impossible to imagine this woman begging anyone, no matter the cause. Yet there she had been, doing just that. Elissa still wonders if part of her decision to put Loghain through the Joining was because of Cauthrien's _voice,_ the way it broke around the final betrayal, the way she had visibly fought herself. Tyrants and villains, her father would tell her - speaking of the Orlesians and how they, too, were betrayed by their own in the end - tyrants and villains may inspire fear and loyalty, but they never inspire devotion.

"The Antivan," Cauthrien says suddenly, pulling Elissa back to the present. "Is he a Warden?"

"Zevran? Oh, no."

"No?"

"He has not Joined, no." Elissa shakes her head. It has never occurred to her that Cauthrien may not be informed of these things. "I haven't... I wouldn't ask. Never. And I doubt he would want to."

The other woman is quiet for a second, coughing slightly as the ship creaks and rumbles around them and the candles on the tiny cabinet that separates them waver dangerously.

"So you have not given him the honour?" she asks eventually and it dawns on Elissa, slowly, what she might be truly asking.

"I don't... it's not so much an _honour_ as it is a death sentence," she says carefully. A voice in her head tells her not to, speaks of secrecy and all those things that served them so badly during the Blight. But Cauthrien has been entrusted with making certain Elissa doesn't fail in her mission – or sell them out to the Orlesians or whatever it is that Loghain imagined she would do when she first told him about the plan – so this, she decides, is certainly no step over any boundaries.

"I take it the Joining is a rite of passage that sometimes goes badly?" Cauthrien asks.

"Badly." Elissa gives a humourless laugh. "Yes. One might call it that. Except it _always_ goes badly. It's a... you could say it's a way of defeating the enemy by becoming the enemy. The reason we sense the darkspawn is because we consume their blood and become immune to their taint. Temporarily, at least. It will either kill you instantly or gradually. For most of us it is the latter. I am expected to have perhaps thirty years before my body gives in to the poison. Loghain... well, nobody _knows_ , but it is thought he has a lot less than that."

They are silent for a long time; Elissa thinks Cauthrien has managed to fall asleep on her side of the berth, and it's not until she props herself up on one elbow to blow out the candles that she notices they are both still awake. Cauthrien looks at her.

"I asked to join," she says then, in a very final tone. "Months ago. In Denerim, just after Landsmeet."

"Oh."

She shrugs, as though the actual Joining matters little to her either way. "Thank you for telling me, Commander."

"It is important to let this remain a secret to the public," Elissa points out, rather needlessly considering this woman's mentor is a man who would keep quiet about the most banal things, hold on to them like treasures. "Nevertheless, I can't believe Loghain didn't tell you why he turned you down."

Cauthrien snorts; this time it's decidedly a sound of weary amusement. "Can't you?"

"Well. You have a point." Elissa grins into the dark.

The potion does have a quick way through her bloodstream, Elissa notices gratefully and flips over to lie on her back. She wonders, as the ship heels back and forth, how many people have been here in this very spot, carried across the water like she is now. It's an enormous thought that makes her appear small, like a tiny insignificance in the endless history of the world.

She _likes_ that.

Glancing over to her side, she sees Cauthrien mirrors her own position and that some of the deathly expression in her face has softened into tiredness.

"Goodnight," Elissa offers.

"Goodnight, Commander," Cauthrien replies and there's a feeling in the stale air around then, a sensation of something being settled, _solved_.

.

.

.

.

They arrive in Val Royeaux a late afternoon two days later.

There are paintings, of course, paintings and legends and myths, even history books, accounting for the beauty of Orlais' largest city, but Elissa knows the moment she sees it with her own eyes, that nothing could ever _describe_ it. Val Royeaux is a sight, not a story. Not even the winter's grasp of the country seems to belittle it; not even the snow on the diversity of roofs and buildings, the colourful fronts and the rich architecture that is grandiose and delicate all at once; not even the frost in morning air makes standing there any less marvellous. Sleeping in the pale blue season, the place is like the sweetest dream the Fade could conjure up.

Elissa gapes. For a few moments she merely _gapes_.

Then she remembers her place and reasons and the company she keeps so she tightens her voice around polite words of admiration instead, as Shirei asks what she thinks and Zevran takes a deep breath, announcing he will no longer have to breathe solely through his mouth.

Shirei takes them by foot across the main roads of the city; occasionally she points to important sights or historical places, but mostly they walk in silence.

The Warden Headquarters are located in a beautiful neighbourhood, close to the Grand Cathedral, but the building itself is not particularly grand. At least not in comparison to what she has seen since stepping ashore. It has two levels and painted glass in some of the windows, but it looks squeezed in among other houses and by the look of it, some of the timber is rotting.

"Your chambers are on the second floor," Shirei informs them quickly outside the main entrance. "Take a while to yourselves, before the feast starts."

And with that she slips away, inside, and Elissa is all alone with her strange collection of companions. She looks around, trying to ignite bravado and triumph at finally having arrived at their sought destination as they being making their way to seek out the temporary quarters.

It will be fine, she tells herself.

 _Fine_.

.

.

.

.

Her newly washed hair smells of sandalwood and something fruity, a strange, pricking note in her nostrils as she walks down the stairs, grateful that she at least isn't expected to wear a dress.

She has dreaded this.

Dreaded it because although the handful of Wardens currently in Ferelden seem to have taken the half-hearted explanation of how the Blight ended reasonably well – at least for now, at least in front of her – Elissa holds no illusions about the rest of the order being as quick to overlook suspected encroachment of their dearly held beliefs. And here in the great, gilded halls, heavy under the weight of scented candles and fires burning, of wine and mead and long tables filled with an abundance of food, she knows she will not be able to escape.

Dreaded it too, because she is a lousy liar, too easily provoked or angered to letting the truth slip out through the cracks of her charades.

At least she seems to recall enough of her tutoring to make herself understood.

Clutching a glass of wine but not drinking it, she stands in the middle of an Orlesian crowd, allowing herself to be inspected like a pound of flesh on the market, thinking the comparison might not be so absurd after all. Even Zevran looks a bit uneasy. What Cauthrien thinks is impossible to discern from her posture; what she _looks_ is solemn and bored where she sits, flanked by her knights.

The Orlesians are swarming around her, pacing slightly, their weapons reduced to eyes and mouths and ears, ready to pick up on anything: an elder man with a beard, a fairly young woman with a lot of pearls attached to her pointy face, a dwarf, two sour-looking young men and an elven woman, observing Elissa without any warmth whatsoever. It's the first time she is among so many Wardens at once, the muffled noise in her head rising as it tracks others, blending in the air, making them one. Her _flock_ , she thinks grimly.

"Are you famliar with the Warden scholars?" the bearded man – if she searches her memory thoroughly from the round of introduction before, Elissa thinks he might be called Ivan – eyes her, sipping his drink.

She had not known there _were_ Warden scholars. Or she had perhaps reached the conclusion after meeting one, in the old Keep, but she had not known in any deeper sense of the word. It seems foolish of her, now.

"Unfortunately not, no," she replies, as politely as possible. In her head, her mother appears, calm and collected and safe – ever the harbour in social gatherings, always the right words. Elissa presses her own pathetic nervousness against the memories, hard and insistently like a repeated prayer.

"You simply _must_ read the essays on darkspawn magic then," the pointy-faced woman exclaims with a blend of enthusiasm and aggression. Her hand clasps Elissa's arm, something she normally would take as a gesture of familiarity, or overstepping of boundaries, but it seems this woman merely does it as a measured ritual. Bloody _Orlesians_. "They are highly influential on our mages' way of training."

"I am not a mage," she says. The drink has warmed up in her tight grip; the faintly rose-coloured wine looks less tempting when the frosty surface of the glass has vaporised into her sweaty palms.

"Oh, few of us can make a show off that, _chérie_. That does not mean one must not educate oneself in the magical theory." The woman looks at Elissa like she was a looking at a slow child. "Some rumours have it magic was being used in Ferelden too, you know."

At least they are straight to the point.

"So we have heard," Elissa says, tasting the wine for the first time. It has a scent of apple and a note of flowery sweetness that is quite lovely. "What led you to that conclusion? I mean, save the rather obvious fact that I ran my sword into the Archdemon's throat and survived. Barely, I might add."

The whole crowd looks at her, quietly at first and then the dwarf takes a swig of his ale and clears his throat.

"There are ways to end Blights without the Warden sacrifice, all right," he says. A few sighs and displeased murmurs rise, and Elissa understands they are not all in agreement as to what they ought to reveal to her. "Just ask some of the people in here, they'd tell you a few things. Problem is, sister, those ways are so sodding bad-"

"She has only just _arrived_ ," Ivan cuts in, offering a tactful smile. "We can leave Warden politics for later."

"Well." Elissa swallows as the words push past her reserves. "You will have to be more specific than that, speaking of these matters with me. As you may be aware of, we have not had much time in Ferelden to brush up on our knowledge of the history of the Order."

"Ivan here, and Dvalinn as well, are referring to our political turmoil," the elf says helpfully, in a too-loud whisper. Elissa can feel her breath on her own cheeks and takes a step back, looking down at the wine she is holding on to like a lifesaver. "Within the Order, I mean."

"Ah, the never ending debates." The dwarf, Dvalinn, rolls his eyes. "I'd suggest getting rid of the chaotic elements, like you would in any assembly worth its salt, but not _here,_ oh no."

"Chaotic elements?" Elissa asks.

"Chaotic elements," he repeats, giving a dark glance to the elf and to Ivan as well before returning his gaze to Elissa, and grinning. "but these folks here won't hear another minute of it. I know when I've outstayed my welcome. I can tell you more about chaotic elements in private, duster. If you know what I mean."

"It is only in your dreams I'd go anywhere private with you," she sneers back, on cue, but not without picking up on the thread of something genuine in the brawling idiocy. A promise to actually tell her more, she hopes.

She's right about that.

Later, as Elissa takes her second sip of the drink and after a few careful rounds in the hall, talking briefly to Wardens and keeping her eyes out for Shirei who is not to be seen, she spots the dwarf waving at her from a small table in a corner. Through the fog-like swarm of noise, smells and the consequences of her own exhaustion she notices how Zevran and Cauthrien look up, both of them ready, their eyes clear and alert. Elissa attempts a smile in their direction before making her way to Dvalinn.

"You look too sober for you own good, girl."

Deciding not to pay any unnecessary attention to being called _girl_ , she takes a seat at the table, crossing one leg over the other and tipping back slightly so she has a good view of the room.

"Talk then," she says.

"What was your name again?"

"Oh. It's Elissa." She realises she has assumed her name in common knowledge and tries to hide the awkward outburst of vanity by taking a large gulp of wine.

"Look, Elissa." Dvalinn leans forward. "The Order is a messy place. That's for damn sure. We're too bloody many in my opinion. Bound to be fractions."

"The safety in having a large army surely outweighs any petty fuss, I'm sure."

He shrugs. "Not so certain."

"Look," she starts to feel the pot valour and her own frustration like a burning in her throat. "We just drove back a Blight with three Wardens. I would have given anything to have at least a troop of them at my disposal."

"Yeah, you would have had that if it weren't for Loghain Mac Tir," Dvalinn spits the name, his full name, which Elissa hasn't heard used in Ferelden in many years. He's _teyrn_ or the _Hero of River_ _Dane_ or, unfortunately for them all, _regent_.

"The Wardens haven't had the best reputation in Ferelden," she retorts, feeling an odd flush of loyalty behind her words. "You cannot fault him entirely for that."

The dwarf's eyes narrow as he's watching her, with a new level of irritation now. His fingers tapping against the goblet in front of him, he falls quiet for a while.

"So it wasn't that bastard who did something then?" he asks eventually. "To end the Blight, I mean. He'd have the means, no doubt. You could tell us, here. We'd be of help if you wanted."

"Help?" Elissa hears her own question echo strangely in her head.

"You know, to get rid of him. Nobody would blame you for it."

"Loghain will be pleased to learn he is still so feared in Orlais, even ten years after the peace treaty," she says, not without a drawling edge to her voice, she knows. "So feared, in fact, that you offer me an entire Order to eliminate him."

"Bah, I'm no bleeding Orlesian," the dwarf returns, scowling. "It doesn't take an Orlesian to want to snap that man's neck. I'm a Warden. That works too. You see, if there is any value I believe in, it's _loyalty_."

"Loghain _is_ a Warden." She feels the curve of the wine glass tight against her fingers, as she tilts her head to study it.

"You think so, do you?" Dvalinn's voice is thick with contempt and, quite likely, too much ale. "Or do you just hope?"

"I _know_ he is." Elissa meets his gaze, keeping her own steely. "And to answer your previous question: the only thing he did was Join and help me fight back the darkspawn," she says slowly and steadily. "I don't even know what these other options would be; it wasn't something either Duncan or Riordan told us about."

"I bet." Dvalinn scoffs, but finally seems to believe her lies. "Okay, okay. You didn't do anything. Fine."

"Now it's your turn," Elissa reminds him as she notices he is making motions as if to leave the table. "You were to tell me something, were you not?"

"You should get that mage you came with to tell you a little about Warden politics. Tell her good old Dvalinn says so."

With that, he scrambles to his feet and leaves. Elissa remains for a long time, more confounded than before the conversation and decidedly less inclined to sleep at all tonight. She has stepped off the ship and straight into something with a long, twisted history; when she rises from her chair she can almost see the imagined ropes pulling her – and all of them – in various directions. And this is when she knows that she will, regardless of how much or little time she spends here, never be able to escape it for as long as this shared bloodstream keeps her alive.

"What did the dwarf want?" Cauthrien asks, as the wretched evening is finally over and she is undoing the buckles of her breastplate in their shared room upstairs. It's a fairly spacious room, several feet between the beds and with plenty of chairs, tables and cabinets to hold their extensive luggage. This is where they will stay for the duration, Elissa has gathered. Best think of it as pleasant.

"A bit of this and that." Elissa slumps down heavily on her bed. Her boots are warm and it feels like a relief to kick them off.

"Warden business?" her companion offers curtly.

Elissa forces her body out of the tight-fitting dragon scale armour and the leather pieces underneath, giving up a loud groan of freedom as the soft air of their well-heated room hits her skin. Noticing that Cauthrien struggles with the rest of the armour, she gets to her feet and assists. The other woman accepts, mutely.

Warden business, indeed.

She _wants_ to talk about tonight. Despite the fact that she is so tired it feels like too much of a task to speak, she wants this. She wants to release the burden of knowing this alone and to hear it said with someone else's words, coming from someone else's mind. But her reality is shifted, forever tilted in way that makes it nearly impossible to let someone else inside it, should anyone ever want to take apart the _Hero of Ferelden_ and _Warden-Commander;_ it is already different from the way it was before the war ended. She stands alone, on one side of the world, trapped in her own secrets.

For a second, caught unaware by the surge of her own emotions, she _misses_. She misses Alistair. She misses before; she misses being able to talk and she misses being understood; she misses camp with its scared night-conversations and endless watches; she misses Leliana and Wynne and warm summer nights under the stars; she misses Fergus and her dog and - of all bloody people and with an unexpected urgency – she misses _Loghain_.

All this longing hits her between the ribs, like a blow, spreading up to her heart and she has to look away from Cauthrien's glance.

"You know how it is," she says, a light-hearted tone for a topic that drags her down with its grey weight. "They're putting on a show, parading their strength. I got the impression they're testing me."

"Of course they are." Cauthrien pulls her arm out of the elbow-high gauntlet, first one then the other; she sits down on her own bed, with a facial expression that would merit a sigh, or a grimace, if she had been someone who displays her emotions in that way. "You think you passed the test then?"

"I... don't know," Elissa admits. This, at least, they _can_ talk about.

"Clearly they consider you important enough to position themselves." She bends down to organise the discarded armour on the floor, laying it out carefully on the soft carpet. "They don't think little of you."

"It's just... they shouldn't. We shouldn't. It's the same order."

Cauthrien shakes her head. "It doesn't work that way."

"It seemed to me it was a whole mishmash of different loyalties and the importance of those," Elissa says as she's dabbing her face with water from the small basin by her bed. It smells of oils. She's cross-legged on her bed now, itching to pull out the ink and paper from her pack and start writing all those things she can't speak of but determined on letting Cauthrien fall asleep first. "The Wardens are not political, nor bound to land or regents."

"Sounds impossible," Cauthrien grunts, stripped down to her smallclothes in front of her own basin and mirroring what Elissa just did. "There is hardly such thing as neutrality."

"No," Elissa agrees. "I know."

They both sit on their beds now, looking at each other. Elissa pulls back her hair, grimacing at the heavy scent it still carries and rubs her neck, habitually checking for muscle knots that will cause her pain unless tended to.

"One minute I thought they were going to sell me out to the First Warden," she says, still pondering the impressions from the feast. "Then they offered me help to get rid of Loghain."

Cauthrien snorts. "How very kind."

"Yes, very. I was touched."

They share a smile. It feels, Elissa thinks, like everything that happened before the Blight ended is so far away, wrapped in a different sort of world, its events bearing no significance to this new one. They _do_ , of course, and nobody has forgotten _anything_ , but the stars and the moon seem to move too quickly for everything to follow at the same pace.

"But jokes aside, Commander?" Cauthrien suddenly sits up a little straighter; her voice is hard and the question is demanding, direct. "Where _do_ your loyalties lie?"

They both know that while it may be Cauthrien's right to ask this, it is also Elissa's right to shrug it away as a concern from a lesser.

"Loghain is the only Warden who has my loyalty," she answers, all the same, because they both knew that she would.

There is no reply to this; Cauthrien simply nods.

Huddled up beneath the blanket on her bed, the idea of beginning that letter fleeting farther away for every moment that passes, Elissa stretches out; her body misses battle, the constant _pull_ of it running through her. After many days on the ship, listless and forced to tranquillity, she would give anything for a good day's physical exhaustion. Tomorrow, she tells herself, she must find a way and somewhere to train.

"You don't still want to Join, do you?" she asks, as Cauthrien's dark hair half-disappears under two layers of blankets.

"Hardly," she says, the blunt brutality in that word is scantily mitigated by being wrapped in soft bedclothes. It lingers in the room, as Elissa closes her eyes and dreams violently all night, of shipwrecks and trials and darkspawn, talking to her.

.

.

* * *

.

.

"Do you have even more letters?" the Teyrn of Highever groans from behind his desk as Loghain steps into his office. "And here I was hoping for a visit _without_ letters. That is not going to be today, is it?"

"No," Loghain replies, nodding towards the little pile he places on a spot where the oak surface is visible. This is in itself a troublesome task given the piles of vellums and papers, books, inkpots and quills that swallows most of the large table.

It has become the order of things over the past few weeks – Loghain receives letters addressed to the Wardens, reads them and concludes that there is little an order of warriors can do for most of the people - all of them freemen - asking for help. What they need is money to buy food to make up for lost crops, restore their homes and resupply their storages. He has about as much gold now as he had when he lived as an outlaw. So Loghain readdresses the notes and letters to Fergus Cousland, who is buried under work of his own and looks more worn out for every day, disappearing behind the clutter on his desk.

"I do hope the need for notifying me of the smallest of bickering will cease now," the man says with a small sigh. He refers to the recently designated sheriff of his teyrnir, thought to help the banns keep justice and order.

"Just make certain the sheriff is loyal to the teyrn rather then the gold." Loghain has yet to meet a sheriff who wasn't easily corrupted, but the man appointed seems sensible enough to not have his head turned at the prospect of cheap bribes. If only for the time being.

"Oh, of course." The teyrn straightens up in his chair, an oddly respectful grimace playing on his lips. "I will give him the benefit of a doubt until he has had his first case, however."

Over the past month, Loghain has become the unlikely and unofficial advisor here in Highever. And what is yet more unlikely is that he doesn't mind it. It is, in fact, quite liberating.

Northern Ferelden suffered the most under his short regency.

If he had not already been urgently aware of this, the recent events in Highever certainly would have enlightened him. The banns have been returning; their numbers are decreased and their soldiers forming small, scattered units barely fit to hunt boars, let alone be useful as protection against the darkspawn who, according to sightings and rumours, are ever present. With the roads still unsafe and the trade petering out, this area of Ferelden is scarcely more than a no-man's land between Denerim and the Frostback Mountains.

It's a sordid record of his own wrongdoings.

Fergus is eager to do a good job, willing to learn and humble enough to listen – there's much more of Bryce than Eleanor in him – and while he doesn't at all times succeed he is always ready to shoulder the responsibilities. In all things, the teyrn is a honourable, decent man and Maker knows he has not worked with those for a long time. Loghain may only be trusted by association, and only temporary at that, but he still intends to use what little influence he has with the teyrn of Highever.

"How goes the recruiting?" Fergus seals a letter while reaching for another sheet of paper.

"Slowly," Loghain admits. Which is a grand understatement.

"I heard you sent both Brann and his sister to Denerim."

As if the lack of capable fighters wasn't enough of a pressing issue up here, there is also the matter of dividing the precious few between Highever and the Wardens. So far, Loghain has not found more than a handful potential Wardens and at least half of those are his own age and thus less likely to pass the Joining. But he can't bring himself to deport all good and half-decent soldiers somewhere else; all voices of reasons in his head screams at the mere idea of that. The darkspawn menace is a threat that cannot be solved by weakening the outskirts of the nation, of this he is certain enough now to act on his own, regardless of what the Orlesians think.

"They did insist quite fervently," he says.

"Oh, I believe you," the other man nods. "Brann would make a fine Warden. His sister I am not to sure about, though. She has a reputation as something of a backstabbing snake."

Loghain raises an eyebrow, wondering if his commander has failed to inform her brother of the usual standards for recruiting. "If she can use a blade well enough I will still find a use for her, I'm certain."

Nodding again, the teyrn looks down at what he is writing.

"Oh, that's right. I have a letter in return for you, this time," Fergus says then, somewhat unexpectedly, and puts away his quill. "Forgive me for not mentioning it before. Your commander is well; she seems to have authored a whole treatise, judging by the size of this."

He rises a little from his chair to reach across the desk and hand over what seems like a small package. It _is_ a package, Loghain confirms as it lands in his hand, sealed with both ribbons and sealing wax and he feels a sense of relief at seeing the hand-writing. The weather since her departure has been anything but ideal – once the storms ceased the snow has been coming down heavily, almost every day for a fortnight – and Fergus has seemed anxious each time a messenger arrives.

She has been gone for a month. It feels much longer here than it does over there, he assumes, here where they are trapped in snow and dire routines and left to their own conceptions of what goes on overseas.

"Thank you." Loghain looks up, nodding curtly.

He expects Fergus to go back to his work as Loghain himself is already half-way home in his mind – _home_ being the only open inn within walking distance where the Wardens have set up camp. But as Loghain is about to call Dog to his side and leave, the other man stirs, indicating he is about to say something.

Loghain sits back, definitely lacking the patience for it tonight, but waiting all the same.

"At least she has safely arrived now," Fergus says eventually, his words dragging as he's looking out over the room rather than directly at his visitor.

"Yes," Loghain agrees.

"Will she be gone all winter, you think?" There is a trace of hesitant worry in the teyrn's question.

"It seems likely," Loghain replies. That is how he has thought of it, at least, when he has considered the duties left to him; between Firstfall and Drakonis only few ships sail, if any.

"Do you think... she's content doing this?" Fergus looks embarrassed; whether that is because he is having this conversation at all or with Loghain in particular, Loghain cannot say. Clearing his throat, he gives a little smile as if to excuse himself. "I know she has little choice in the matter but I mean, do you think this is making her miserable?"

"I am hardly fit to answer that," Loghain says, after a pause.

"No? She has spent more time with you than with anyone else during these past few months. And you know what it's like, doing what she does."

Loghain feels Dog push against his shins, which is a sign he wants either attention or food – usually at the same time and in large amounts – as he tries to search through his mind for an appropriate answer to this.

He does know what it's like. It's a life he is reluctant to wish upon anybody, especially not someone who was thrown into it with little choice in the matter. Fate is cruel and inconsiderate. That seems like a rather harsh truth for a worried brother, however, so he swallows it along with the slight discomfort at discussing Elissa.

"I think," he says carefully, "that she is well suited to this. She is strong. And very capable. Best warrior I have ever fought with."

Something softens in the teyrn's posture at those words. "Oh, I was never doubting _that_."

"You should not."

"She trusts you." It's a matter-of-factly statement and its simplicity resounds in the room.

Loghain hesitates, although not for long. "I have no intention of proving her wrong."

"Good." And _finally_ the teyrn deems it enough, his attention returning to the work at hand and Loghain can get to his feet undisturbed at his second attempt.

It's snowing again as he leaves the castle.

Dog runs in circles ahead of him, picking up the trail of something, no doubt. The falling snow is as wet as the snow already on the ground, making his boots soaked. Still, he prefers to walk rather than using the horses or the carriage the teyrn has offered on more than one occasion.

They _have_ ran into darkspawn on this road occasionally, but between Dog and himself and the Orlesians sometimes, when they have had business in the castle, there have never been any dangerous encounters. There's still a lingering sense of being on the verge of something every time they encounter them. A sense of not having seen the real threat yet, of being led somewhere without the option to choose not to follow.

Tonight, however, Loghain would prefer getting back more quickly.

As they reach the old, worn building where they currently reside, Loghain hears the sound of chatter – Orlesian, blended with Ferelden drunkards, a mix that almost takes him back more than thirty years. He used to hear the noise from taverns and whorehouses when they came too close to the villages and he had lingered sometimes, equal amounts curious and disgusted. As he and Rowan travelled together to raise support for Maric, he had received more than enough of what he sometimes secretly asked for as a very young man and found that it wasn't much to wish for, in the end.

His room is cold when he returns to it so he strips off his armour and the wet clothes and lights the fireplace before sitting down, the letter in his hands.

_Loghain,_

_I hope all is well and that the restoration and recruiting go as planned..._

She writes about the journey, the ship and the storms endured. In many words, and with a truly atrocious hand-writing that meanders up and down – occasionally she has forgotten something and adds that as vertical notes along the sides – she accounts for what has happened since she left Highever.

Elissa writes much like she speaks, he learns about four pages into her massive letter. She is well educated in the arts of rhetoric and literature, but the words that meet him on the pages are exactly like he remembers _her_ , struggling out of all confinements – her letter is unabashed, intelligent, slightly crude and sharpened by an edge of dark humour, even as she writes about things he knows she must find awful. She is a good storyteller and a clever observer and Loghain is vaguely amused, reading her caricatures and portraits of everyone she has met.

He reads the part about Warden politics several times, lighting a new candle as the old one burns down; it isn't unexpected, an order like theirs, said to hold neutrality highest among their bloody virtues, must inexorably fail, break under the strain of country borders and leaders with other purposes, other reasons.

He wonders what dangers that puts her in. So does she, he suspects, even if she would never admit it.

_Oh, and I might have been somewhat indiscreet as I informed Ser Cauthrien of certain Joining secrets, which I thought you had already seen to, to be honest. You should have! The woman told me she asked to Join! If there was a particular and intricately cruel reason for you to keep her in the dark, then that is no longer a possibility. I thought you would want to know. At least now you will have a back story as to why she might send you cursed letters full of chicken pox._

_I do miss Ferelden terribly. Take care of it for me._

_Elissa._

_P.S Don't spoil my dog. If he begs at the table when I get back home, I will hold you solely responsible for it._

Loghain almost smiles at the final part of the letter.

He finds, now that it is no longer _here_ and only its absence reminds him what used to fill its place, that he has come to appreciate her company. It has been many years and many lives since he valued someone as a friend, thought of them not as what else they were to him and others but as friends, first and foremost – not since Rowan and Maric, not since he was still young and had not yet made a ruin of everything that could be grounds for friendship.

Whatever this ground is made of – blood, chaos and civil war, shattered beneath strands of acceptance and familiarity and her own strange flavour of mercy; and of lines on a map being forcefully redrawn – it is _different_.

Very different, he thinks, folding up the pages and looking at the slowly dancing coals flare up and go down, a circle-dance coming to an end.


	13. Little more than kin and less than kind

There has been unrelenting snowfall for three full days.

The upside to this is that it makes the roads safer to travel, less crowded by both darkspawn and humans and the only impending dangers are those of freezing to death or being trapped somewhere by a heavy snowstorm. But they have braved those odds so far, and Logahin is not inclined to change this pattern. As they plod through the village – no more than a handful of houses spread out around a small Chantry and a tavern – he listens to the Orlesians mutter among themselves a few steps behind.

He has found that, aside from the fact that the sheriff releases a lot of the burdens the teyrn has previously shared with Loghain, he also provides a steady source of hints and tips about possible recruits. Furthermore: thanks to Jenner and his skill with badly veiled threats and brutal intimidation, they sometimes have a source of gossip that precedes even the sheriff.

Loghain adjusts the hood of his heavy fur cloak. From what he has gathered over the years of serving kings with starry-eyed fondness for the Order, the Wardens are famous for recruiting the bravest, most fearless and skilled fighters across Thedas. It clashes oddly against the apparent willingness – especially among the Orlesians – to simply walk into the nearest prison dungeon and offer the goblet to anyone still standing up. He has already warded off one murderer and one raw-boned boy said to have raped a bann's daughter, deciding that he will rather fight the remaining darkspawn of Ferelden on his own than risking an order based on self-serving scum of the earth, ready with a dagger the moment his attention falters.

He remembers, too, Elissa's words, their mutual agreement: _nobody against their will and never without knowing._ Her reports from Orlais has only strengthened this idea.

Today they are stopping by the home of what Jenner describes as a skilled rouge, wanted for the death of two knights. And after quickly dismissing the houses that appear abandoned – wide-open doors in the middle of the winter, caved-in roofs – they stand outside a surprisingly well-kept home where candles are burning.

Loghain knocks, hearing the others come to a halt behind him. Hawise stands by his side, removing her hood as the door opens and a man appears. He is young, still built more like a boy than a man, the gentle features of him blurred in a slight roundness. There is nothing in him that appears capable of causing death.

"Yes?" His face turns ashen the moment he sees them, and as his eyes fall on Loghain there is a second of adjusting images and remembering titles after which he appears ready to burst into tears. "What is this about?"

"May we come in?" Hawise forestalls Loghain, already pushing at the door to get inside, away from the cold and into the warmth. The man steps aside with a muffled protest.

The home is sparse, but doesn't have the appearance of being a temporary location; it is decorated, welcoming, the shelves are full of items and a few toys lie scattered in a corner. People _live_ here.

"We are Grey Wardens," Loghain explains, already starting to resent the recruiting play they put on. It feels like a long, dull performance not fit for even the worst of playhouses. "And we are searching for Locke."

"I-I am Locke, ser."

"No, he's not." Another voice fills the room, belonging to a woman who steps out of what appears to be the bedchamber. Behind her, clinging to her skirts, is a small boy. The woman holds him back, pushes him into the bedchamber again as she steps forward. "I'm Locke. What do you want?"

"You're wanted for murder." Jenner, ever the blunt fool, crosses his arms over his chest and watches the reaction of his words sink in. "We would like to propose a different solution, however."

The man shakes his head, positioning himself in front of the woman as though he would be capable of serving as a shield for more than a second. Still, there's a sudden flare of something in him as he looks up at Loghain, defiant and desperate.

"Don't-"

"Landon, stop," the woman hisses. "You're making it _worse_."

"How could I _possibly_ make it worse!" he turns around, and Loghain spots the momentary panic in the woman's face at his reaction. This is much too easy, all of her weak spots laid bare; it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. "They're taking you away!"

"What did you do?" Loghain looks at Locke, who meets his gaze.

She has the look of a fisher or a maid, not someone capable of taking down two armed men. The only imposing part of her is the way she carries her determination and pride, Loghain thinks, waiting for her confession.

"I killed two knights. In... self-defence." She speaks evenly, but as the boy runs back out again, her voice falters a little, her hands reaching for him protectively as though Loghain is going to snap his neck.

"How did you manage that? You don't have the look of a warrior." Hawise eyes the other woman.

"She's an excellent archer," the young man, Landon, interjects. "Been a hunter since she was a little girl."

Locke nods. "I am. And I was... lucky."

"Lucky?" Loghain asks, noticing how the boy glares at them, as Locke once more urges him to leave her and Landon bends down to pick him up. The boy is too old to be held against his will, however, and soon struggles free again.

"I... there was a... Look, how do you even _know_ about this? It happened months ago. During the war." Her gaze falls on Loghain. "We all do what we have to during a war, don't we?"

"I like your attitude," Jenner says, talking a step towards her. "Unfortunately for you, I don't believe what you're saying."

"Please, I can-" Locke begins, retreating, but Jenner follows.

"Stop that, you fool," Loghain growls just as something sends the Orlesian headlong into the wall with a loud crash, a chair toppling over and a glass jar breaking.

Both Locke and Landon gasp, rushing forward as though hoping to cover the source of the power: the boy who has freed himself and stands in a corner, shivering, with hands outstretched and a terrified expression in his face. The air around him still glows faintly.

"Well," Jenner drawls, getting up from the floor and wiping his hands on his cloak. "This just became slightly more interesting."

"No," the woman shakes her head, near tears. "No, _no_ , please. This is not what you think. He isn't... he was just trying to protect me. He... oh, Maker help me!"

"He's just a child," Landon says, holding the boy in his arms. "He's..."

"That's your son?" Hedin asks, calmly.

"Y-yes." Locke looks up, her face distorted in grief. "He's never done anything like this.. it was... he was afraid they would kill me."

Loghain can draw a fairly clear painting in his mind of what must have happened to the knights. _His_ knights, most likely. He can't bring himself to care about their fates, knowing enough of both war and the spoils of the same to think they probably deserved it. The present situation is too delicate for his blunt sense of justice, however, and he forces back threads of both memory and tiredness as he hears Jenner laugh darkly.

"I doubt the Chantry and the Circle will see it that way," he says. "Not to mention the sheriff."

Hawise tilts her head, looking at Locke with a new-found respect. "We could use you in the Order. In exchange for our silence, of course. Isn't that so, Loghain?"

"I can come with you!" the woman exclaims, hurrying forward. "I will! Just don't hurt my son!"

"No, Locke," Landon pleads, reaching out for her but she is already far away, her eyes kept on Loghain.

"Oh, I'll go with you, I will! Just don't tell anyone about him. _Please_." And then Locke is on her knees in front of Loghain - he steps back, disgusted. "I beg you. You can do anything you want with me, but don't take him. Don't take my son!"

"Get up from the floor," Loghain commands, but his voice doesn't seem to register in the choir of sobs rising from the boy and the desperate pleas from his parents. Why he would need a desperate mother who _might_ be moderately skilled with a bow, he fails to understand. Then they can just as well recruit aged beggars and small children next.

"No, you can't take her away from her son!" Landon cries, trying to pry the boy's arms away from Locke's kneeling body but is met with a low hissing sound. "You can't! I'm no fighter, but take me instead if you need soldiers. Please."

"I will go with you," Locke says again. "I... if I must, that is what I will do. But don't send the Chantry after him. Please. _Please_."

"He will forget, he's so young." Hedin points out, calmly.

He won't, of course. That boy might live to become an old man but he won't ever, not for one second, forget this. Loghain shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the ripple of memory in his blood as he forces his attention back to his fellow Wardens.

"She comes willingly," Hawise raises an eyebrow in Loghain's direction.

"I _do_! I do, ser." Locke echoes, over and over, her hands tugging at Loghain's sleeves and he flinches, grabbing hold of her much too harshly, his fingers nearly reaching around her thin arms. Her eyes widen at the pain and he pulls her to her feet.

"I told you to get _up_ ," he says coldly, to drown out the throbbing heat in his chest; his head is crowded with noise and that awful trace leading back somewhere he cannot allow himself to walk. "I will not recruit you."

"But ser-"

"I will not recruit you," he repeats. "Even if you survive the Joining, you would make a useless soldier."

For a short while Locke seems insulted, before the meaning of his refusal sinks in and her face lights up with a faint hope.

"But her son... she might be a _mage_ ," Hawise cuts in as though Loghain would be unable to reach this conclusion on his own. "And even if she isn't, if she's good with a bow we can use her."

"I have seen neither magic nor any particular strength in her," Loghain shrugs, watching the boy run to his mother's side and sees how Locke is reining him in among her skirts, pressing him against her own body. "We are done here."

" _Loghain_ -"

"You would do well to remember that I am in charge," Loghain cuts her off, sharply, extending his admonition to all three Wardens. "For as long as we are in Ferelden, you are under my command and you _will_ follow my orders. Now, get _out!_ "

Jenner is about to say something, but Hedin's hand on his arm is quicker. "He is right. I agree with him."

They leave the house as they came, wordlessly and disjointedly, a group separated by the same lines that are meant to draw them together. As Hedin exits with Hawise and Jenner in front of him, their steps quickened by irritation, Loghain feels a hand on his back. When he turns around, Locke stands there, the boy still clinging to her. They both look at him as though he is someone else, someone he can't remember being; not through the whole weave of time that unfolds itself backwards in his mind can he find a notion like this, and it almost discomposes him.

He is condemning them to an uncertain future, to the kind of life he recalls with a shudder, and they look at him like he has _saved_ them.

"And the Chantry?" Locke asks, her voice no more than a whisper.

"I'm not a templar," Loghain replies, biting down on the many things that is wrong with this situation and the many things both of them will have to overlook for now.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "I have... nothing to give you in return. But _thank_ you. We will not linger here, I swear. We'll... we will find somewhere else. And I promise that my son... I will not let him... not again."

Loghain nods.

"So," Jenner says briskly as they leave the village. "Now that you have wasted yet another recruit, perhaps you would like to enlighten us how we _are_ to fill the ranks in this fish-reeking excuse for a country?"

"I could explain," Loghain sneers into the darkness that has fallen. "But logic would be lost on you."

"Yes?" Jenner snorts. "Well, if this is how Fereldans build their armies, it is no wonder it took you so long to drive us out."

"Be quiet," Loghain says and amazingly they are, all of them, for the rest of the dreary walk.

Later, as he sits in front of the fireplace after a warm bath and a plate of the grey, flavourless food the inn serves, he opens Elissa's latest letter. He has been saving it, he realises, as he unfolds the slightly damp sheet of paper she has used for wrapping the neatly folded stack of pages. To have enough time on his hands once he sits down with it, he tells himself.

Her letters have not become any shorter.

Aside from the long, detailed stories of what she is doing, she has also acquired the habit of copying large masses of text from the books she finds in her studies, sending them to him along with notes and scribbled half-finished thoughts of her own so that every page feels like a conversation by the fire, full of odds and ends sewn loosely together by sheer will and a lack of sleep.

Her letters have not become any shorter, and tonight he is endlessly grateful for this respite from reality.

.

* * *

.

The winter seems kinder in Orlais.

The winter seems _hesitant_ here, as though it's still waiting to properly crack open over their heads, drowning them in snow like the season always does in Ferelden; there's a milder air here, a less unforgiving cold. It also seems slower, like it is never going to end.

It has been a strange new year so far, Elissa thinks, hurrying up the stairs to the Headquarters' library. She has become familiar with the long, steep steps now, walking here up and down several times a day. Strange and _hollow,_ as though this winter is detached, a period of time torn off from her history, carrying nothing but waiting to be filled with content.

And she certainly keeps herself busy.

All day, every day, she speaks to everyone she can imagine having something interesting to tell her – and to quite a few who clearly don't. In the evenings she attends dinners, roaring gatherings with too much wine; occasionally she is asked to accompany a group of Wardens to the town square or the Chantry, often she spends the evenings in the company of Cauthrien or Zevran, going over impressions and stray information, or else she spends them in the library. She trains, feeling the lack of battle take control of her body; she walks around in the city; she keeps her wits about her at all times and picks up more gossip than she could ever think possible. The Order here is divided, to say the least. There are those who want to break out of the tight political control, those who swear their loyalty to the Empress and those who spit on the bond to her; there are those who claim themselves Wardens, not Orlesians and those who believe the very opposite; there are, it seems, fractions for all opinions and a terrible tangle of chains running between and beyond.

Elissa stands in the middle, trying to reach around it all, nursing a faint hope to understand it.

When left to herself, she reads, she _devours_ the texts in the old tomes and the newer scholarly works; anything she comes across that does not land properly in her mind, doesn't have notes of understanding, she promptly looks up and transforms into detailed notes.

"Commander?" The title makes her frown, its shape seems to resound oddly against the stack of books and the unfamiliarity of _everything_ here. The Orlesians rarely use anything but her name and Cauthrien and the knights don't follow her to her library sessions. "A letter for you."

One of the servants, in this case a soft-spoken elven boy, stands in the doorway. He glances up at her, holding out his hands. Elissa has seen the way Zevran looks at the elf servants in the house, their servile gestures and deep bows somehow more pronounced here than they ever are in Ferelden.

"Ah." Elissa tucks the book under her arm to reach for the sealed package. "Thank you."

They have become a routine among the other routines, now, these regular messages from home - one that never fails to put her in a good mood. Either it's Fergus' verbose complaints about cowering servants and petty banns, or Loghain's dry and sparse summaries of unsuitable recruits; Elissa soaks the words up and saves them for when she can't sleep and wishes she was somewhere else.

It's not until she looks at the hand-writing of this particular letter and recognised the hand-writing as Loghain's that she realises she has _hoped_ it would be, and the realisation, as it sinks in, sends a little jolt down her spine.

She leaves the library, grabbing a mug of tea when she passes the dining hall and then, huddled up on the bed, she starts reading.

_Elissa,_

_All is well._

_You write that my letters are dull and uneventful. They are. Highever in the winter is dull and uneventful. Do you wish me to wax poetic about the snow? Perhaps you can hire a bard for this. Orlais is full of them._

Elissa snorts quietly into her tea, cradling the mug in her hands and swirling it around slightly. As a child she used to imagine that the next sip would taste differently if she did that, expected the flavours and tastes to switch places. It never happened that way, of course.

_The political fractions should be treated with caution. I would not advise you to dig too deeply there. You are at a great disadvantage._

_Dog misses you, I believe._

_Loghain_

.

.

.

.

The ambassador's office is dreadfully cold.

Elissa is shown in by a young woman, a pretty elf maid with expensive clothing and a posture that differs from most servants she has met so far. This one is important, she has a position.

"Lord Bydon shall see you shortly, Commander," she says, curtseying as she holds the door open for Elissa and slips away again.

The reason for the chill is the open window by the bookshelf, Elissa realises as she gives herself a moment to take in the view of the room. It is not a very large or imposing chamber by any means, but it holds a few impressive items – on the wall she spots a very old framed map and in a corner by the desk, on a richly decorated stand, is an artefact in the shape of a celestial globe, depicting the stars in the sky. She strides across the room to inspect it more closely.

"Commander?"

"Ah," Elissa turns – caught in the act, just as she is about to drag a finger along the meticulously painted star constellations - and composes herself immediately. "Ambassador Bydon?"

"Well, if it isn't a _Cousland_ ," the man says, grinning at her. He is a heavy man, with a broad face and a thick, grizzled mane of hair – a rough shape of human, nothing refined in his features or his voice. His grin fades. "My sincere condolences for what happened."

Elissa should recognise this man, something tells her. He has served Ferelden for many years, both here Orlais and back in Denerim but she has to search through her entire recollection of Landsmeets and long lessons with her parents, making sense of who's who, before she finds a vague memory of him.

"Thank you." She nods.

Not wasting time with small talk, Bydon gestures for her to sit down by the window where a tray of tea and bread awaits them. He closes the window, to her relief, and sits down opposite her at the small table.

"How are things in Ferelden? I understand King Alistair is already as popular as his father ever was."

"The king fares well," Elissa says. Not that she knows much about it, not having spoken or written to him since the coronation; but he _would_ be fine, of course, she always knew he would.

Out in the corridor there's a clattering sound of trays being dropped and muffled voices raising up from the fading noise. Bydon shakes his head.

"Ah, the servants in this country. Hopeless, the lot of them," he says, smiling knowingly. "I tried to bring my own, but my wife would not have it."

"She is still in Denerim?" Elissa picks up the boiling hot tea and attempts to take a sip.

"Indeed. Running the household with her iron fist."

"You must miss her then."

Bydon merely chuckles at that, like she has said something utterly hilarious.

"What brings you to Orlais?" he asks instead of answering her question, titling his head to observe her fumbling with the too-hot tea and the oily bread that slips between her fingers in a rather graceless way. "I have heard of your heroic achievements during the Blight – well, nobody in Thedas has missed _that_ – and we were surprised to learn you boarded a ship to Val Royeaux as your first mission."

Elissa keeps her facial expression tightly composed. "I saw it as one of my most important duties to learn as much as possible of the Grey Wardens, of course. And after the events following Ostagar, I wanted to personally make certain there is no hostility between us and our Orlesian brothers and sisters."

She wonders if she sounds believable. She has repeated these phrases so often over the past months that she has, at least, started to believe herself.

"Ah, yes. It is said the Empress is abandoning her previous stance on Fereldan diplomacy after Ostagar," Bydon says, gulping down tea with a large chunk of bread. "But you know that already, surely. You are set to have an audience with the Empress, are you not?"

Elissa nods. "In three weeks time." She doesn't add: she has certainly kept me waiting.

"It is also said that the reckless and unexpectedly hostile turn during the Blight has cost our nations a good twenty year's worth of diplomacy," he continues, not managing to keep an edge out of his otherwise neutral voice. "You can thank teyrn Loghain for that."

Despite being so used by now to hearing his name everywhere, speaking of him with everyone, defending him with silence and the occasional word, Elissa still feels a slight stab at the sound of him name. It hits somewhere deep inside, among doubts and fears and maps of their uncertain existence. There is a little voice, however silent these days, that tells her that they might be right.

"It's just Loghain now," she says curtly.

"I heard." Bydon nods. "You are either a very clever girl or a downright fool. That's the word on the street, at least."

"And what do _you_ think?"

"I do not have opinions, Commander. I mediate them." He smiles wryly. "When I feel an opinion of my own developing I usually take a brisk walk."

Elissa can't decide if she appreciates the man's sense of humour or dislikes him on account of being so inanely flippant. Possibly the latter. She knows he served the king for many years. She tries to imagine him at Maric's court, serving under him – and in reality of course also under Loghain – with this attitude and it brings a smile to her lips, despite her efforts of hiding it.

"I meant about the diplomatic endeavours," she clarifies. "Surely you are allowed opinions on your own work?"

Bydon looks at her, eyes narrowing slightly, before he replies. "It seems what is being said now is merely the same old rumours of the ill wind that will blow south again. Maric, Maker rest his soul, sought to heal the breach. That, I believe, is a honourable project."

"I agree completely."

Elissa smiles as sweetly as she can, although she has been told on several occasions that it only makes her look frightening. As she picks up the cup once more, drinking the now considerably cooler tea she knows this, whatever they will speak of for the rest of the visit, will lead nowhere. But she has gathered enough to know how to get further.

She is still her mother's daughter, after all.

.

.

.

.

"Zevran?"

He stops half-way into his quarters as Elissa, still out of breath after having ran most of the way back home from the appointment with Lord Bydon, reaches him.

"Ah, is this the day when you are going to fall into my arms, at long last?" he smiles, crooking an eyebrow. "Finally overwhelmed by your urges?"

"No, it's not. My urges are very much under control." She leans against the wall, discarding a layer of shawls; her neck is too hot and she feels a trickle of sweat running down her back. "I do, however, have a task for you."

His smile fades as the echo of a scene like this, hurried and desperate, falls between them; he nods, letting his eyes go blank as he meets her gaze.

"Is that so?"

"The ambassador, Lord Bydon, has a servant," she begins, almost stumbling on the words."She's... I believe she is not just a servant. There's some kind of power there. She might very well be bedding him, the poor girl. He is all politics, impossible to talk to. She, on the other hand..."

"And you want us to bond over the impossible masters we serve?" Zevran asks, his voice thick with amusement. "Now, this _is_ a more exciting prospect than watching Ser Cauthrien scowl at Orlesians all day. She is a very dull woman, my dear Warden."

Elissa snorts to hide her grin. "I want you to find out as much as you can about the diplomacy here. What the gossip mongers say, what she thinks of Bydon and what he thinks of others – if you understand what I mean?"

"I do. You want a little spy."

"Yes. A very subtle one, at that."

Zevran chuckles. "I'm your man, my dear."

"Good." She reaches for him, puts a hand on his arm and smiles. "Thank you, Zevran."

As she enters her own chambers, where Cauthrien sits at the desk reading a book – probably the one about Orlesian warriors that she has been absorbed in for the past few days, Elissa gathers – she drops the discarded shawls and fur cloak over a chair, letting out a little groan of mental exhaustion. The remains of the politics and social manipulation are making her head sore. She feels like staring at a spot on the wall for hours.

"Interesting day?" Cauthrien looks up, momentarily.

"Very." Elissa sits down on the bed, kicking off her boots and spots, when she is about to lie down, two letters on the table beside her.

"Those came when you were out," the other woman says, nodding at the letters.

Not able to hide her delight, Elissa picks them both up, weighing them in her hands. Fergus has a handwriting much like her own – sloppy and uncontrolled – and his letter is thicker, several pages every time. The other one, the one she opens first, is no more than two sheets long. Which is almost twice the length of his last letter, she realises, still smiling.

_Elissa,_

_All is well. Your letter was, as ever, nearly impossible to read. Are you afraid you will run out of paper or is it a deliberate choice, using every possible corner and margin?_

_You have my condolences for having to meet with Lord Brydon. The man is absolutely worthless. I believe his skills go as far as eating and pawing the servant girls._

She laughs quietly, flopping over to lie on her stomach to continue reading. He writes about the usual things: how he has little success recruiting, the impossible Orlesians, the badly masked guilt over the state of the Coastlands, the plans for the future. But he is somewhat less terse in this letter, there is a texture to his words that makes them sound like him, like the Loghain she can hear in her head; hear his arrogance and sarcasm, the irritation and scathing bickering but also – and this is a most unnerving thing – those decidedly warmer notes she remembers, too.

_Be careful with the Empress. She is much cleverer than the Fereldan caricatures of her make a show of. But you should be able to handle yourself quite well, I think._

_Loghain._

Elissa reads the last part for the second time when Cauthrien suddenly clears her throat.

"What does Fergus write?" she asks, and there's a hint of something sharp in her voice, Elissa hears, straightening up a little in bed, glancing over at the unopened letter on her pillow.

"Oh. He is... _well_. Busy. Occasionally snowed in. He sends his best regards to you," she says, hoping he _does_.

Cauthrien hesitates for a moment. "How... kind of him. Give him my regards, too, Commander."

"I will," Elissa smiles, looking over her shoulder.

She replies immediately tonight.

First to Fergus, narrating the stories of the city, telling him about that night when two junior Wardens lured her with them to a brothel because she can see his face light up at that tale; telling him, too, about how bored she is by politics and treading carefully and smiling pretend-smiles and how much she misses him. Then she replies to Loghain, a different tone and almost a different language, but the same thoughts running through the lines of ink on the parchment.

By the time she writes her own name at the bottom of the last sheet, her hand is so stiff that she can barely let go of the quill. Breathing into her palms, Elissa reads the last part of the letter again, already regretting words and phrases. She has never been an ardent letter-writer, has seldom had anybody to write _to_ , and the finality of written words suddenly bothers her a little. Then she is bothered by her own worry, wincing as she seals the letter, getting to her feet quickly to become occupied enough for a moment, to eventually be able to fall asleep.

.

* * *

.

Loghain is not, and has never been, a very good soldier.

Being a soldier means forced comradeship, means unwanted brothers-and-sisters in arms and pointless pretences of not noticing the hierarchic differences between each other; he is not one for brawling crowds and then there's the idle _idiocy_ of it, too, that wears him down. Otherwise fully capable men and women reduced to drunkards or packs of sodding children, sitting around sharing stories that bear little truth.

 _Don't be such a pigheaded bastard_ , Rowan used to tease and Maric used to grin and pour more wine into his glass regardless of how strongly Loghain protested.

The Orlesians, however, have no Rowan or Maric in their ranks, so Loghain avoids them successfully almost every night at the inn, burying himself in self-assumed work and – when the weather allows – taking walks with the mabari, looking for darkspawn. Of all the things he has counted on and planned for since the Landsmeet, being _bored_ is not one of them yet here he is, an itch in his very skull from the lack of interesting or at least moderately upsetting conversations, the absence of battle and strategy, the empty slots in his mind usually occupied by politics and war or planning.

He keeps busy to the best of his ability, even if that sometimes is something as pathetic as hunting darkspawn in the forest near the inn.

Tonight, unfortunately, there's a storm approaching.

Loghain sits in his room, having finished sorting through another pile of letters and requests before the evening meal and finding unexpected pleasure in the undisturbed reading that clears his mind efficiently of anything but the text before him. He doesn't even hear the footfall until it's too close for escape.

"You don't look well."

It's Hawise's voice, no doubt about that. He doesn't turn his head to look at her, but she rounds his desk and solves that matter immediately.

"Is it too much to ask that you knock before entering people's private rooms?" Loghain sighs.

"The door was open," she says, coming closer. She carries two goblets.

He curses the dog silently.

"I do not wish to _drink_ ," he leans forward, elbows on the table and fingers rubbing at his temples. "And I certainly have no need for your concern or your company."

"You make it sound like I'm flogging it on the market." She smiles. "I give it for free. Can you imagine? It's an Orlesian custom."

He glances up at her where she stands, still smiling in that self-contained way that permeates her entire personality, as far as he has been able to tell. It's an odd trait in an Orlesian. Or rather, it's an odd thing to find a _decent_ trait in an Orlesian.

"We don't have to drink. Or talk, even." She sits down opposite him, looking wearily at Dog who looks back, with the same exact amounts of suspicion and curiosity.

"Then there is _truly_ no need for your presence, is there?"

"I have been with the Wardens for eleven years," she says, pretending she hasn't heard him. "For most of those we've had peace. Even so, there are things to do, difficult and time-consuming things to keep the state of vigilance."

Hawise moves a little, still looking at the mabari who has now lost interest in her and gone back to his content slumber next to the fire.

"It's a difficult life, most of the time. It gets lonely."

"Well," Loghain sits back, running a hand through his hair. "I am certainly old enough not to need lectures on the subject."

"Being a Warden is different from everything else. It is not like serving in an army. You don't get respite from the Wardens; if you have the skill they will employ you even in peacetime, find some use for you. And even if you don't, you cannot step out of their ranks, not _truly_. You are a Warden until you die, and you hear the Calling regardless."

"I am certain I will manage somehow." Loghain picks up a book from the desk, to indicate that he considers the unwanted conversation over, but Hawise is still _there_.

"You were married, were you not? You have a family?"

He snorts. "That is hardly a matter I intend to discuss with you."

"Have it your way then." Hawise shakes her head, looking intently at him with her arms folded across her chest. "But I _know_ you know what I am talking about."

He does, of course. Her allusions are as blunt as wooden swords.

Like an image from the Fade itself, ghostly grey like old letters and paintings that have not been tended to, he can see himself in Gwaren, a husband and a father. It's the clatter of porcelain in the drawing room where Celia wanted to update him on the latest news or show him the improvements to their home; it's the little girl who grew up all those days he wasn't there to see it and who was afraid of his unfamiliar voice and smell once he returned but who still cried when he left again, hanging on to his arm; it's the shade in the garden where an older Anora would taunt their fat tomcat by putting him up in the apple trees and watching him struggle his way down; it's sitting there as Celia gardened, her hands working relentlessly at the rosebushes while Loghain quietly watched her.

Those were moments - happy moments in a sort of life he never thought he would have and still can't believe he had - that he somehow never allowed himself, not even when he was in the middle of them. It was the quiet repose of family, of domesticity in a place he refused to think of as home. He never understood how or why, never thought it important, he only understood that he missed it once it was no longer granted him.

"We're not Orlesians," Hawise says, her voice startling him when it breaks into his thoughts. "We are Wardens. And we are family, whether you like it or not."

"No," he says. "You are not."

She drags a hand along the side of his desk, looking absent-mindedly at his collection of books and maps and as she picks up a volume and turns it over, reaching for the pile of maps Elissa left, Loghain feels a dark rap of irritation at the back of his mind.

"Don't touch those!" he barks, almost instinctively, with a heat that surprises them both.

Raising an eyebrow, Hawise still has her hand over the map of the Tevinter Imperium. "This one? Is it valuable? I didn't think -"

" _Yes_ ," he snaps, tearing the map away from her and shuffling the other maps together. "It is valuable."

He is being a fool, he realises, which makes him even angrier with both her and himself, his unreasonable reaction jarring in his mind as Hawise shrugs and rises to her feet. She picks up one of the goblets and pushes the other towards him.

"The ale is good," she says lightly, a hand brushing over his shoulder as she finally leaves him alone.

Loghain groans. Then he begins rolling up the maps properly, making separate rolls of them rather then one big pile; he finds a crumpled up draft of something between the many pages, a few old messages addressed to the Grey Wardens that she must have forgotten to get rid of – he looks through them to make certain they have taken care of the business referred to.

Among the maps is also the latest letter from Orlais. He looks at it, hesitating to pick it up but does so anyway, skimming through the lengthy scrawl that is slightly more readable now that he knows what it says. And how it ends:

_I miss talking to you. This might possibly be the strangest sentence I have ever written in my life, but there you have it._

_Elissa_

He sighs to himself.

Still irritated and _unsettled_ in the worst possible way, Loghain downs the ale and shakes his head, as though that would clear his mind.


	14. Kingdoms are clay, our dungy earth alike

_Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch_   
_Of the rang'd empire fall! Here is my space._   
_Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike_   
_Feeds beast as man_

**Antony and Cleopatra**

William Shakespeare  
.

* * *

The Orlesian court is nothing short of terrifying.

Its size, its display, its very core of posturing, positioning, slightly threatening manners intended, without a doubt, to make Elissa feel exactly what she is feeling where she stands, sweating in her finest clothing and with the legendary weapons from the Blight on her back. They suddenly feel too heavy, like she has shrunk in size. The clothes feel tight against her skin – and not only because of those lovely Orlesian pastries and a lack of exercise, but because she wants to crawl out of them, run away from this and hide behind a large Fereldan army, preferably led by someone else. She is aware of the infantile cowardice in these thoughts, but at the moment it feels more tempting to take on the Archdemon for another fight than meeting the Empress of Orlais for an afternoon chat.

"Nervous, Commander?" Cauthrien asks beside her, her voice wrapped in a peculiar sound mirroring what Elissa feels.

"Not in the slightest. You?"

"Hardly."

They exchange a wry half-smile.

Before them are the enormous stairs leading up the the equally pompous entrance, warded by a small army of guards who are armed to their teeth. Around them the courtyard is splendid in itself, resembling the kind of botanic garden Elissa has only read about before and even now, with melting layers of snow taking away some of the impressive beauty, it is possible to imagine how striking it truly is.

With a last look around, Elissa walks up to the waiting crowd that - without saying many words save the necessities - takes her to her audience with the Empress.

She is a short woman.

This is the first thing that strikes Elissa – an _odd_ thing, too, considering the pomp associated with the figure in front of her, the massive surroundings of marble and gold so costly, one might assume, that it is almost shameful to speak of them. Seated in the middle of the room, the glitter from her extensive finery distracts momentarily, as she is shifting a little in her seat at the announcement of the new guests. When the first impression wears off, and everything sinks in, Elissa _truly_ understands that she is looking at the most powerful individual in all of Thedas. Her expression is one of power, her gestures – controlled, confined – are all those of someone used to ruling; absolutely nothing is out of place or carelessly handled. There were those - back when she was still _Cailan's Queen_ and not Queen of Ferelden - who said Anora resembled the Orlesian Empress; they said it like it was to her disadvantage, resembling the tyrants. It is, Elissa realises now, a compliment.

A wiry old marshal takes a deep bow.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he states formally. "May I present to you - Elissa, the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey Wardens and Defeater of the Blight."

Elissa kneels on cue and hears the sound of metal on stone as her entourage does the same.

 _Defeater of the Blight._ It's a pity they don't use all this form and decorum more often, she thinks, to make herself distractedly amused in her position on the marble floor. It would certainly make for long conversations.

"Commander," the Empress nods, gesturing for Elissa to rise again.

"Your Majesty."

They meet eye to eye, observing each other levelly for a moment.

Up close, Elissa finds, the Empress is beautiful in an unremarkable way, she is what her mother would have called _a good breed,_ is power and pride and carefully made brilliance; she has eyes the colour of grass, that seem to dig their way into Elissa's calm composure. But there is no maliciousness in her face. She scrutinizes her visitor.

"I have heard much about you," she says, her gaze lingering on Elissa without transforming in the slightest, it remains exactly the same and is impossible to read. Polite indifference, _detachment_ , mastered to a kind of perfection that is truly stunning.

"I am honoured to meet you, Your Majesty."

"Ah," the Empress adds a smile to her face, distant and crisp. "A well-mannered hero. How fortunate for Ferelden."

"Thank you," Elissa inclines her head and pushes the irritation at the remark to a dark corner of her mind. This is no day for remembering anything further back than yesterday unless it serves a visible purpose; this is a day for politics and careful manoeuvrings.

Suddenly the other woman stirs, being aided to her feet by the ladies waiting by her side.

"Walk with me."

It's not a question, so Elissa follows suit as the Empress begins to walk slowly across the room, through the crowd that disperses at a flick of her hand.

They make their way to the side of the large chamber, exchanging unimportant phrases until a note surfacing in the Empress' voice indicates it is enough. There is a moment of silence before she turns to Elissa.

"The First Warden has overlooked your treachery against the Order, Commander," she says. She sounds friendly – or rather: she has hit a perfect imitation of friendly – and her eyes betray no contradicting emotion. "This should make any Warden business much easier."

"Ah, _I_ was-" Elissa interrupts her own sentence, reminding herself of the company. "Yes. It is most generous."

 _Your treachery_. She may be a foolishly proud creature, but to assume responsibility for _that_ makes her body clench in a quiet fury, rising from a low whisper to a roar as the conversation progresses. Yes, she understands guilt by association and she is much more than just associated with Loghain, having placed her trust in him and left their nation in his hands, again, regardless of his crimes against it. But it's not like she was ever presented with much of a _choice_ , she thinks darkly.

Bloody _Loghain_ and his arrogant use of power. At least half of her new duties as a Commander would have been significantly simpler if he had not - if he had possessed a _smidgen_ of the sensibility he prides himself on – _No_. Elissa shakes her head slightly, demanding her thoughts to return to present. She can't change the past. It will remain there, jarring against her every step, until it is worn down or driven out and she has no idea how to accomplish the latter.

"I take it you have not met with the First Warden yet?"

"No," Elissa shakes her head again, this time while looking at the Empress. "No, not yet."

"He is seldom a visitor in other nations," the Empress says, rounding a pair of guards. All of them wear the same kind of silverite armour that Loghain had seemed to be attached to when she first met him – Elissa knows the legend, how he beheaded the Commander of the Orlesian army with one stroke and took the armour for his own, a spoil of war reminding them all of what means they had used to pay for their freedom. It leaves an odd taste in her mouth, here. "It is rather unfortunate."

"I understand the First Warden prefers not to leave the fortress in Weisshaupt at all." Elissa steps in between a curtseying elven maid and two deeply bowing chevaliers; it appears the Empress is leading her towards an exit in the shape of an enormous gold bronze door where delicately crafted sea snakes made from silver are forming the arch.

"He does not." Her smile is somewhat frosty. "For all most people know, he may exist only in legend."

Elissa smiles back, politely. "This is not true, I gather?"

"Indeed not."

Noticing that nobody follows the Empress, Elissa gestures briefly to Cauthrien to linger, too. If a a trap or an ambush awaits behind that door, it is unlikely a handful of knights can stand a chance against it and the risk to display hostile or even defensive behaviour is too great. Elissa hopes she is right, thinking of her mother's lessons in diplomacy – verbose and tedious as they were - that invariably led to her father tutting and shaking his head, saying _you should have been Queen, Eleanor_.

"We are taking our tea in the garden," the Empress says, forestalling all questions.

"I see." Elissa nods, without asking further about the garden part. It is true most of the snow has melted but the air is still cool and the ground is wet. Hardly a perfect day for outdoor sojourns.

But as she follows into the garden, the scenery speaks more than words. In the middle of the courtyard, taking up most of it, save a few neatly arranged paths is a colourful, blossoming rise in the ground, entirely in bloom and carrying a heavy scent of roses. It is vastly decorated and arranged into several sections, one of which awaits them at present, a few servants standing ready to serve tea underneath an arch topped with white and faintly pink lilies. All in all, it resembles a painting from a fairy tale. Elissa blinks. _Naturally_. She should have understood that the Empress of Orlais knows how to put her mages to good use. The garden is gaudy, of course, and provocatively sumptuous – but this is not Ferelden, she reminds herself once again – and absolutely inviting.

Elissa is being seated in a soft-cushioned chair with her back to a high rose bush, and served strong tea with delicious little cakes of various size and shape that all seem to melt in her mouth, the sensation of them trickling down her spine with a soft gasp. The Empress looks vaguely amused at the - likely badly hidden – pleasure. It makes Elissa straighten up in her seat.

"Your Majesty, if I may speak?"

"Well, certainly."

"I was hoping," Elissa says, wielding her sentences carefully as though the words are hot coals. "I mean, I believe it is crucial for both my Order and for our nations to have a future... understanding."

"There has been such an understanding since the treaty," the Empress replies softly, putting her tea back on the table with a little clinking sound.

"Of course." Elissa nods. "But surely we both know that it was broken during the Blight. It serves neither of us well to pretend otherwise."

The boldness of her words marks the air between them, the spaces outlining them both against the backdrop and where the scent of roses basking in the gentle spring sun makes it difficult to breathe. They are combatants now more than ever and Elissa doesn't back down.

"You are an unusual Fereldan," the Empress says eventually, after what feels like a procedure involving weighing Elissa against some invisible competition, measuring every inch of her.

"I will take it as a compliment," Elissa says, rather dryly.

"Oh, you _should_. It was intended as such." A new trace of friendliness, sounding differently this time, creeps into the voice. "And you have my word, Commander, that I shall honour the understanding in the future."

"As will I, Your Majesty. As long as it serves the Wardens and my duty to them."

_As will I._

Elissa stifles a grimace. It feels a little bit like the tales she would read in secrecy in the armoury – the stories of rash and bold heroes selling their soul for infinite wisdom or bottomless courage, being forever trapped in a demon's chains. She reminds herself that Anora and Alistair have made no promises, sworn no oaths, but the taste of ashes in her mouth doesn't fade. Her parents taught her well, after all, she is no blind fool; then, as the images of them burn out in her mind she thinks, irritably, about Loghain, almost hearing his cold and unreasonable berating from across the Waking Sea. _You made peace with them_ , she snaps back. _And then you slaughtered the chevaliers at the border because you think nobody but you knows anything, you stubborn-_

This is what she came to do.

The Empress looks up; their eyes meet levelly. "I do have a concern, however."

"Yes?" Elissa raises an eyebrow, swallowing her last sip of tea. The servant closest to her rushes forward to pour more into her cup, a whiff of perfume and roses brushing past them as she does so. She already knows what the concern will be.

"Loghain Mac Tir," the other woman states, expectedly. "He is a great risk for you, Commander. While he is a Warden now, by all means, he is still the same man."

"Loghain is my responsibility, Your Majesty," Elissa hears her own tiredness break through the reserved tone she has taken great pains to maintain all afternoon. "I assure you that his motivations will never interfere with the Order's motivations."

The Empress looks thoughtful. "Let me ask you this, Commander – in a choice between his nation and the Order and the Order's best interests, where would he place his loyalties?"

Something is stirring. Elissa knows the Empress has let her know as much today, has let slip slices of unspoken information in her questions and casual remarks; she has also gathered enough similar traces of information over the past few months to know that there are things beyond their control taking place and that loyalty will be important before they have seen the end of this.

Loyalty to _what_ or to _whom_ , she cannot tell.

"Such a choice will not be his to make," Elissa retorts, praying she speaks the truth, not knowing what in the Maker's name Loghain _would_ choose in a situation like that. She hopes she will never have to find out. "It will be mine."

And the Empress says nothing more, but the expression in her face reveals that she doubts Elissa's false certainty as much as she probably should.

.

.

.

.

As she returns from the audience, the Wardens are celebrating an upcoming Joining, one that marks the five hundredth in Val Royaeux. An occasion to wrap in wine and generous servings of food, Elissa understands, as she slips out of her ridiculously overwrought clothes and into a simple leather armour.

She will have supper and a mug of ale and then retreat, she tells herself.

After the first serving of food and wine downstairs, however, she forgets the promise entirely and grants herself the respite of not thinking about it at all, falling into habitual gestures and words of badly performed companionship. Like she is wont to do. Ivan beside her helps her to a third glass of wine and Shirei grins, raising her own goblet to cheer her on. In the corner of her eye, Elissa spots a heated debate taking place, with words so loud they crash against the spirited hum of a room full of Wardens.

"It's the Wardens from Mont-de-grace," Ivan explains. "Notorious for causing a stir wherever they appear."

"Why?" Elissa reaches for more grapes.

"Oh, they habitually move against the Empress." He grins, wiping something off his thick beard. "She doesn't like that."

"Neither do most of you," she replies. She feels bold today, too bold, and the wine doesn't _help_.

Ivan looks sceptically at her for a moment.

"No," he admits. Nothing else.

Sighing, Elissa knows this is how it _is_. This is all, this as far as she'll get. The rest is silence. Shirei refuses to discuss Warden politics with her, in spite or because of Elissa's increasingly aggressive attempts. She knows, too, that Dvalinn disagrees with Shirei, whatever it is that _Shirei_ believes in; what little Elissa has been able to find out about Ivan, the historian, is that he seems fairly uninterested in making statements of any kind. He has been kind to her, and occasionally even helpful, yet she would never dream of being able to pry any sort of information out of his guarded persona, because he would never allow it.

You are at a disadvantage, Loghain had written.

He is right, of course. She sits right in the beast's lair.

And she has reached a point after which there is nothing. Regardless of her attempts, regardless of the months she has spent building up good graces and friendly relations, she remains the Fereldan Warden, the guest who might be lying to them about the end of the Blight – who _is_ lying, she reminds herself- and the visitor who is given scraps of the whole, but never more than that. This will not change. This _cannot_ change.

Drowsy and a little drunk after the meal, Elissa walks up to the divan where her companions are seated, sinks down in between Zevran and Galen, one of the knights, who grunts a little and moves further to the left. Beside them in an armchair, Cauthrien is balancing a mug of ale in one hand and a plate of cheese in the other. She has not yet begun to look less misplaced, Elissa think, smiling to herself. It is clearly a lost cause.

Elissa takes a large gulp of wine. "Andraste's arse, I want to go _home_."

Zevran grins. "So you shall. Soon."

"It can't be soon enough, Zevran." She tips her head back, momentarily resting it against the wall behind them. "Give me darkspawn over politics, any day."

"Ah, I don't know about you, but I have found this little trip of ours rather... interesting." He glances at her, one eyebrow crooked. "For me, that is."

She had known – or guessed, and at times, if she has to be completely honest with herself, even _fantasised_ \- about his particular talents in this area, but even so, it seems shocking that a base and banal thing can be put to such uses. For weeks now Zevran has returned to her with gossip, stray words here and there, details that in themselves signify nothing in particular but that put together make an intricate weave of diplomat politics and an Orlesian worry, she gathers, regarding other nations. It seems, judging by all things Elissa has found here, that Empress Celene is concerned about something and secures her borders, aiming to expand and thus fortify them.

The servant girl from the Fereldan ambassador's office – a pawn in their game, hopefully not ever revealed as such – confirms Elissa's beliefs with her careless revelations of odd intrigues.

"You may let her go gently now," she says. "We mustn't endanger our discretion."

Zevran nods. "Alas, I know."

And as he rises, likely to get a refill of his wine, Elissa thinks she can spot a gleam of _regret_ at that. It makes her frown.

"Is he truly that skilled?"

Cauthrien's question is tearing at the flimsy cloud of exhaustion and wine that seems to surround Elissa; the morass of words, phrases, meanings, implications and worries that tangle and untangle in her mind, prying her coherent thoughts apart like sharp swords. She blinks, turning to the woman beside her who is picking at a large chunk of cheese.

"Zevran?" Elissa asks, as though there was anyone else.

"Yes."

"As a spy, you mean?"

"As a prostitute," Cauthrien corrects, looking grimly amused.

"He isn't... _well_..." Elissa rubs her cheek with the hand that holds the goblet, before taking another sip, feeling that familiar stitch of uncomfortable truth again, surrounding their friendship. A friendship, she knows, that was founded on his death wish and her desperation but that all the same seems to fall apart under the things she asks of him. "It's not like _that_."

Cauthrien shrugs.

"It's a cheap trick," she says, putting down her untouched drink on the small table in front of them. "And surprisingly common considering the poor outcome."

"It seems to work in this case," Elissa replies, sinking back in her seat.

"Yes. Which is why I asked."

"I... yes. Yes, I believe it goes well. He is skilled."

"The Orlesians sent plenty of bards to court for a few years," Cauthrien says in response to that. She reaches for another bit of cheese. "When their corpses were sent back one time too many, they stopped, though. Of course, it was not always _confirmed_ they were Orlesian bards, but it's a safe assumption to make."

Elissa nods. It's not hard to imagine the scenario.

"Either they thought very highly of their bards or very little of King Maric's court." She feels herself sound distant, _feel_ distant, like she is somewhere else, tugging at her lower lip and watching Shirei in the far end of the room, disappearing into the passage that leads to the library and research quarters.

"Both, I should say." Cauthrien snorts. "They usually made the mistake of targeting the men around the King. You can imagine, perhaps, Loghain's reaction."

"Yes." Elissa bites back a dark laugh at the idea of some highly trained temptress attempting to ensnare the Hero of River Dane; she cannot see the situation end in anything but a lot of blood and it is not, of course, _amusing_ in the slightest. The threat of the occupying nation was always there, even in her childhood in the years of diplomatic endeavours and truce it was _there_ , in the stories they told and the songs they sang and she has always known the price they had to pay for freedom. Even today, she thinks and feels the taste of tea and cakes and ash-grey compromises overwhelm her again. "Yes, I think I can."

She sighs, noticing that Dvalinn exits through the same door as Shirei used only moments ago, as though he has followed her trace.

"I must..." Elissa scrambles to her feet. "Wait here."

"Of course, Commander."

The rooms and corridors of the building have become familiar places to her now, yet Elissa has never used them for anything beyond the ordinary, has not come to know the place like she knows the castle in Highever, where all corners and doors hold endless possibilities for both flight and secrets. Here she is a stranger. She has to use the ordinary means of walking on these floors, cannot do anything but follow the fixed logic of exits and entrances; she has no secret language of the building in her possession.

Elissa reaches the same corridor Shirei and Dvalinn sneaked into and wonders for a few seconds how she will find them, before she can hear their voices loud and clear. Grateful that they are not skilled spies or rogues, she slinks closer.

"...don't throw about your false accusations, Dvalinn!"

It's Shirei, Elissa realises, her voice distorted by irritation that bleeds into her naturally soft tone and makes her sound downright _unpleasant_. The door is ajar and she comes to a halt, holding her breath while waiting for a sign that they've heard her approaching.

"They're hardly false when you _confirm_ them, mage."

"So many different reasons - " A clatter of metal from inside the room interrupts their voices and Elissa hears a soft, mumbled noise of what sounds like curses. She leans as much closer as she dares, pressed up against the wall.

"There are lines we don't cross!"

"Because we _know_ it is bad or because it has always been that way?"

"Does it really sodding _matter_?"

Then the voices sound more distant again, like they're walking around in there and have reached the other end of the room. Elissa can't make sense of some of the following sentences; just as she is about to leave, thinking the she won't be able to eavesdrop any further, they draw nearer.

"...going to tell them? Are you?" Dvalinn, loud and angry.

"That is _not_ your concern-"

"I am a Warden! And the Fereldans, what will you tell them before they leave?"

"Dvalinn..." Shirei sounds like she's pleading now, her voice shattered and difficult to hear "Don't... Not yet. There's no reason not to think... not trust her."

The loud steps approaching make Elissa retreat quickly into a small research chamber, breathless and stiff against the wall as the angry dwarf storms past her in the corridor, followed by Shirei whose skirts make a swishing noise as she follows him, a few steps behind.

Elissa rubs her forehead, feeling slightly nauseous.

Air, she thinks absent-mindedly. She needs to _breathe_.

On the little balcony overlooking the streets behind the Headquarters as well as the small courtyard where Elissa has learned that the Order historians and scholars grow herbs and vegetables, she drags fresh, cold night air into her lungs. It evens out the turmoil of emotions inside her, pushes back the desire to empty her stomach of all its content.

It's still chilly when the sun is not up. But the seasons are shifting, a slow and steady pull of the inevitable powers of nature, of warmth battling the last snow; it's the melting snow being forced to give in to the warmth of the earth, the will to bloom and prosper.

The ships, she knows because she has asked the same question for a fortnight now, will start sailing by the end of the month. Unless, of course, the sea decides to freeze over again or an avalanche will trap them or if the powers of nature in any other way decide to hold her here. At the moment she feels ready to go against even the Maker, if she can just return _home_.

When she hears footfalls, she turns on her heel, hand grabbing the hilt of her sword without even thinking about it, as though her battle instincts would do much against whatever danger a whole nation can assemble against her. Still, it's difficult to rid oneself of things so deeply rooted in flesh and bones.

But it's Zevran, his soft steps sinking into her as a relief, and he walks up to where she's standing and glances at her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"No need to apologise. It's this whole sodding day." Elissa grimaces. "No, wait. Make it this whole sodding _winter_."

They are both quiet for a while. Zevran peers out over the courtyard, looking in the same direction as her, seeing the same darkness and empty benches in the garden.

"I have a confession," he says, eventually, the notes of his voice unusually free from insinuation and amusement. He has come to be honest. "And a proposition, one might say."

Elissa nods. "Speak."

"Now that the ships are sailing again, I wish to take my leave for a while. Return to Antiva to take care of a few... undisclosed and unfinished businesses." His lips twist slightly upwards in an imitation of a grin. Whatever those are, she knows, they are no pleasant and he takes no pride in them. "I could, should you decide you have use for such things, be your little spy even there."

"Are you tired of Wardens?" she half-asks and smiles faintly. The prospect of losing him suddenly feels faintly disturbing, like everything is just slipping through her fingers and _changing_ , without her consent. Commander of the whole world and all the creatures in it; she groans to herself, when did this happen?

"Of you? Never," he half-replies and remains where he stands, looking down on the empty courtyard. "My intention is to return, actually. Should I successfully avoid all assassination attempts in Antiva, that is."

"Why _do_ you..." she begins but lets the question fade. It is not her place to know everything, she reminds herself, ever so reluctantly. She lets her hands fall to her sides, turning around to lean her back against the parapet with a distinct impression of leading a life that runs in circles. Perhaps all lives are drawn in the same way. Zevran deserves a chance to find out if his is. "It sounds like a good idea, Zevran. If this is what you want."

"It is."

She nods again. "Then I shall wish you good luck and make sure you are paid handsomely."

There is no pretence, at least, that he does this for her as a friend. Or that she would ask it of someone she considered just that. Still the agreement echoes dully in her chest and the sensation of losing them all, of driving out the few things that were good that was so persistent after the battle on Fort Drakon returns, full force until the cold of the night air blends with the beginning of grief in her lungs.

She has never missed Ferelden more.

.

* * *

.

It's the thawing of the earth that brings out the darkspawn, Loghain decides, pulling his sword out of a defeated shriek. They have been spared the attacks for a long time now, but since a few days back, when the first hurlock was spotted, the villages are steadily reporting new sightings of darkspawn in the area. And they seem to arrive like ghosts appearing out of thin air, or secret passages to the Deep Roads, which is a possibility that fills him with dread.

These shrieks have attacked the glens near Highever castle and driven away the few freeholders who had braved a return – and now they are dead in spectacularly inane way, having rushed a crowd of Wardens.

"Well done!" The teyrn of Highever rides up to greet them as they make their way to the castle. "You have my thanks, Wardens."

"Of course, Your Grace," Hedin says simply, sheathing his cleaned sword.

"Did I not tell you to forget those titles?" Fergus dismounts with a wide grin and pats Hedin on the back; it's a gesture that seems somewhat out of place, but Loghain has long since stopped expecting the new teyrn to follow any usual social procedure. He resembles Cailan in this – but _only_ in this, thankfully.

"You did," Jenner cuts in, having reached them now after a quick pickpocketing of the hurlocks – he once found a few useful herbs on one of them and has made it an unnerving habit to always loot their bodies.

Loghain and Hawise walk side by side as they, all of them, enter the castle grounds where they have been promised warm baths and a hot meal. It will be a welcome rest after days of battle, yet he cannot let himself relax and it seems at least Hedin shares this worry.

They are too _few_. The darkspawn attacks are currently under control thanks to the soldiers of the Bannorn and the Coastlands, not thanks to any Wardens.

"As the Order grows, it will be easier to recruit more... unconventional Wardens, should you want to," the elf says under his breath; he pauses before the guards' entrance to the castle where Fergus has told them to put their armour and weapons in order to have them properly tended to by the servants.

"Criminals who can plot an uproar, you mean." Loghain puts his shield down, against the wall where it glitters blindingly in the afternoon sunlight. He keeps Maric's blade, has found that the more carefully he cleans the runes and carvings on it, the more they seem to serve him, like he has decoded an ancient language. "I prefer to let them hang."

"You are not a teyrn any longer." Hedin frowns. "You must have _Wardens_."

"I do."

They have sent a small number to Denerim, awaiting the first Joining ceremony – a decision made, he thinks grudgingly, before they knew the darkspawn were returning. In hindsight, they could have used them here, of course.

"Don't deliberately misunderstand me," Hedin sighs, in that tone he uses to berate Jenner, when the other man is being stubborn. Loghain prefers not to think about what it means to be subjected to the same treatment.

.

.

.

.

The dining hall is empty, except for Hawise who is helping herself to the food already waiting on the tables. Loghain enters, picking up a goblet of ale.

"Good bath?" she asks, smiling somewhat. Her hair is wet and down over her shoulders, whipping up a scent of spices and flowers as she moves beside him, her arm almost hitting him in the chest as she grabs a piece of bread.

Loghain takes a step back, waiting for his turn – or for the woman to be finished without invading his personal space. "It was a bath," he replies.

"You don't differentiate between good and bad baths then?"

"Not usually, no."

Her chuckle is low and almost private, as though this is a joke they share. He lets it pass, like he lets her inane advancements pass – without acknowledging them, while wondering what her purposes are and how he can find out.

"You Orlesians do not worry about the stability of the Order," he comments, as he takes a seat beside her, stirring his bowl of stew.

"I worry about being outnumbered by darkspawn." Hawise puts down her mug. She looks understandably addled by his abrupt change of topic.

"That seems like a foolish main concern, considering you always are."

Loghain takes a spoonful of his food and glances at his companion. They are the first ones to return from their baths, the empty hall nothing like he remembers it from his last stay here, when they had crowded each other and prayed for solitude.

"Well." Her shoulders seem smaller somehow, their frame thinner, as she shrugs. "You have a point. But there are different ways of being outnumbered, too."

Different ways of losing the war. Yes, he is aware.

"It sounds as though the Order is bound to be divided?" he asks, though the question has the shape of a statement and she understands it as one, he can tell.

She gives him a hesitant look. "It is."

"Tell me." This isn't a question.

"About the divide of the Order? Certainly." She smiles, hastily. "Given the Empress's large influence over the Order, the Orlesian Wardens are traditionally split in two fractions. One who approves of the political advantage this give us and one who thinks we are weakened by serving other purposes than the elimination of the darkspawn threat."

Loghain nods; he has gathered as much from Elissa's letters and his own speculation. What he does not know, however, is how much of a danger these fraction constitute or how they position themselves in the presence of other potential conflicts. Elissa's last letter gave reason to suspect the power of the different fractions runs deep.

"There are those who devote all their time to Warden politics," she continues, looking at him over her mug. "Both in Orlais and in other nations. It's a large and diverse crowd of different wills and ideals. You will even find Wardens who believe the darkspawn are worthy of respect and rights, who believe that they have been unjustly enslaved under their own nature but could rise above it, given the opportunity."

"And you?" Loghain downs a large gulp of ale.

Hawise looks at him. "Do I believe the darkspawn are oppressed by their own nature and pitiful creatures? Certainly. But it is scarcely my sworn duty to do anything but dispose of them, all the same."

At least she isn't an _utter_ fool, Loghain thinks, nodding. Unsubtle and not yet trustworthy, but he can't imagine she is as stupid as the Wardens they are presently discussing, who are willing to give up all reason for some soft-hearted belief about equality. Even so, he finds himself observing her, trying to figure out what she demands in return for these confessions.

Two servants slip into the room, tending to the fireplace and carrying new ale to the table. As they leave again, Hawise puts her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands.

"How often do these fractions clash against each other?" Loghain demands, showing away the empty bowl of stew to the other side of the table.

"Oh?" She raises an eyebrow. "Not at all. Not so far, at least. There have never been any documented internal conflicts in the order."

"That hardly means they have not existed."

They fall silent as some of Fergus' knights arrive, a loud group of five who takes a seat at the nearest table. Loghain rubs the bridge of his nose; he is tired and irritated, blaming the recent darkspawn attacks on poor planning and an idiotic lack of imagination. He also wishes the commander was here to weigh her ideas against his own.

He has been unaware of the extent to which he trusts her judgement until it ceased to be there, until her often annoying and ridiculously stubborn opinions sailed to Orlais and left him alone with his own.

As he looks up, Hawise is still watching him, a softer expression in her face now.

"I was born in Gwaren, you know," she says. "Or rather, I was born on a ship that was sailing to Gwaren. My parents worked as trading merchants after the war; they had... well, they had limited means for survival. The returning soldiers were treated as vermin, at least outside of Val Royeaux."

"For having lost?" Loghain asks, not out of any particular interest. His goblet is empty and he considers turning in for the night, hoping for a good night's sleep, uninterrupted by attacks.

"For having lost." She nods. "The chevaliers blamed it all on their lessers. You have a strange nation, but I do believe it is fairer. In Orlais, we grew up with the stories of you. You came from the fields of a farm and became the King's right hand. It could not have happened that way in Orlais. We reluctantly admired you, you know."

Sneering, he shakes his head. "There is no _sense_ in that."

"Hero worship has little to do with sensibility," she says, amused. "Neither has friendship, as it happens."

"Do you have a point?"

"No." Hawise cocks her head, in a coy manner. "I merely enjoy talking to you."

Loghain has nothing to add to _that_ , so he gets up with a little exasperated sigh.

On the bed, once he is able to reach his chambers in the castle, he finds a letter, still slightly cold and damp from being just delivered. Loghain fidgets with it for a second, before opening it, the melting seal sticky against his fingers. By now he knows the hand-writing so well it seems almost readable.

_Loghain,_

_When you read this I am hopefully already on a ship. I shall keep this brief – yes, you are allowed to laugh – and I write mostly to tell you that I am headed towards Denerim for the installation of the new teyrn of Gwaren. Fergus has asked for my presence there. Will you bring Hedin and join him on this trip? This would serve as an ideal opportunity to perform our first Joining, no?_

_I cannot wait to be back in Ferelden!_

_Elissa._

* * *


	15. Equinox

**CARTOGRAPHY**

**-PART THREE-**

_Ice burns, and it's hard to the warm-skinned_

_to distinguish one sensation, fire, from the other, frost._

**A.S Byatt**

**Elementals: Stories of Fire and Ice**  
.  


* * *

It's the first really warm spring day, they have told her. The heat did not begin to return until last week as the winter season finally turned on its heel.

Elissa sits for an hour of unbroken solitude in the garden, listening to distant noise of city-life. It no longer feels unfamiliar; after Val Royeaux it has settled in her as the shape of something she remembers. The sun is warm on her bare arms and tickles her neck when she leans forward or tilts her head to the side. She arrived yesterday after a journey that was a vast improvement over the first one that took her across the Waking Sea. The sun had been guiding them most days, showing the way and grazing the skin on their faces and forearms, leaving freckles and colour in its wake. Today she has walked around in Denerim, trying to bind the old-new impressions to her body: the copper beeches, the chalk-white and light brown floor in the newly restored chantry, the Fereldan children's songs, the smell of dogs and the way light falls differently here, over and across and in between.

She forges a home, like the blacksmiths forge weapons.

Since she was last here, Fergus' servants have made a fine show of the garden in his city estate, forcing the nature that had been left to run wild into submission once more.

Loghain is expected to return shortly, the knights have told her. He had been out somewhere when Elissa was brought to the teyrn's estate in a carriage that she was a breath away from telling Fergus was much too costly to invest in until she realised it belonged to the palace; Loghain had been gone again this morning as they ate in the dining hall downstairs.

In the pattern of greetings and handshakes, of smiles and returning, familiar sights and sounds she had perceived the lack of his; she feels it now again, as a little uproar in her chest. She has missed him. How, she asks herself, one hand brushing over the side of her face as if she's still expecting to find strands of hair there, _how_ in the Maker's name does one miss _Loghain_?

She does.

He is sour and aloof, taciturn and stubborn like a whole horde of mules. He is arrogant and frustrating and cloaked in himself and his own grievances. And she has missed him like one misses a friend, a part of her still with him.

And Loghain is stepping across the courtyard now, she can hear him without turning her head; the gravel is crackling beneath his feet.

"Commander," comes the curt greeting.

Elissa gets up from the bench, turning to face him.

"General," she says, mirroring his solemn use of that discarded formality between them. Her attempt falls flat to the ground and instead she smiles as he closes the distance somewhat, walking up to the bench. "It's _really_ good to see you."

Something softens slightly in his expression at that. "And you."

Since her return she has been embraced and touched more times than she can count – Fergus' bear hugs and the pats on the back from well-meaning half-strangers of Denerim who still can't quite grasp that she walks there among them – and she feels her body fall into the pattern almost before she can check herself.

Instead she reaches out a hand to touch his arm, briefly. He remains where he is.

She stands very close - close enough for her to feel the heat of his clothes, smell the leather of the horse reins on his hands and the sweat in his hair, the small pearls of it visible upon the sun-warmed skin on his neck and throat. As he shifts, discarding his shield against the legs of the bench, Elissa can see he has undone the small buckles around the neckline of his tunic; there's a rivulet of sweat running from the sharp line of his jaw down into the dark hair that's faintly visible through the loose fabric.

He looks _well_. Battle does that to some people, she has noticed; it pushes them out of their own neglectful habits and forces them to eat and sleep in a kind of natural rhythm.

Loghain is definitely one of those people.

"You have cut your hair," he comments dryly.

"Ah, yes." She instinctively puts one hand to the nape of her neck, which is still feeling naked without the cover of shoulder-length hair. It had been an impulse during the last few days in the city, encouraged by Zevran and his slight taunt – _are you truly so vain that you cannot change something as simple as your hair? Fascinating!_ Of course, when she had suggested he'd do the same afterwards, he had found a reason to leave the barber instantly. "I... _yes_. More practical."

And she is about to say something more, although she doesn't quite know what because what else can she possibly say about _hair_ , when Dog appears behind the bushes. He picks up her scent and then he sets off and Elissa doesn't even have time to squat down in preparation for when he hurls himself at her, barking so loudly it rings in her ears.

"Hello, boy," she says, throwing her arms around the thick mabari neck. "Have you missed me?"

Dog barks a loud chain of agreement; he licks her forehead and rubs his nose against her head as though he, too, wants to remark on the new hairstyle. They are on the ground, tumbling like they used to when they were both younger and Elissa had clothes that were not allowed to get stains – they always were stained, of course, and she was punished by having to spend another afternoon with the seamstress. She digs her fingers into his sides, stroking him and examining him, scouting for wounds inflicted in her absence. Naturally there are none to be found. He appears well-fed and not too spoiled and his fur is shining.

"You have been good, haven't you? Yes, you _have_."

He barks, licking her cheeks. Yes, he has been good. And not too heartsick, although he wouldn't admit if he _had_ been, of course. He has his pride, like she has hers.

"And you smell of... _darkspawn_?" Elissa tries to disentangle from the hug at that realisation but is thrown flat onto the ground as Dog straddles her, not remotely finished with his examination of her.

"We ran into a few genlocks just before we got here," Loghain answers, raising his voice to drown out Dog's explanation that is, incidentally, very much the same except Dog puts more emotion into it.

Elissa scrambles to her feet, just as Dog launches another attack, obviously not satisfied with letting his mistress off the hook so easily after she has left him for many months; she is thrown off balance entirely as the mabari forgets he is no puppy and tries to run between her legs. Aware that she ought to avoid falling face down on the stone bench, she involuntarily dives.

Loghain's hand is there, quickly - soldier's instincts - and she grabs it gracelessly; his dry palm feels rough against her own that is dirty from tumbling on the ground. Their eyes meet briefly, a hint of a smile on his lips and more than a hint on her own.

"Stop that, boy," she admonishes Dog as Loghain releases her again. "You have to calm down, you see. Yes, I know. I missed you too. Yes, I did. _Behave_."

 _I'm sorry_ , the nuzzling of her hand seems to say and Dog sits back beside her, her fingers tugging at his ears in a way she knows he likes. With her attention turned away from the mabari, she looks at Loghain instead.

"Darkspawn?"

"There have been plenty of darkspawn sightings outside the city," Loghain elaborates in a rather clipped tone. "Last night they were crowding an area near the Alienage."

"That's troubling." Elissa feels thrown right back into something – her _life_ , she reminds herself, the part of it that has been on hold for the entire winter – in a perplexing way. She adjusts it all for a moment. Pushes it back into place. When she glances over at Loghain she notices he is watching her, as if he notices her struggle. "Have the attacks been ordinary?"

They both know that the alternative to _ordinary_ is darkspawn that speak and are capable of coordinated strategy. That the alternative to ordinary is _nightmare_.

Loghain nods. "So far, yes."

"At least that's something, I suppose."

She has so much to talk to him about. It hits her as he stands there, arms folded and his face a stiff mask of seriousness while she is fretting about, losing track of her own thoughts and impressions of being back home. They have months to go over, actions to evaluate and measure and then, once this is done, there are new plans to be made in front of a fire or quickly on their feet.

Elissa sighs. The language of Ferelden: darkspawn, battle and duty. It collides brutally with what her body still recalls of Orlais, what her blood remembers of all those little details that could be allowed to slip in between the duties and everything she _must,_ because she was abroad, because she was a guest, because she was not the bloody Hero of Ferelden.

Here, she feels wound tightly around her own fate – one that has already been set in stone.

"In light of the situation in the Coastlands," Loghain goes on, picking up his shield, oblivious or deliberately ignorant of her unease. "I would suggest we immediately set a new course of action."

"Yes... yes, that sounds good." Elissa says, still distracted. She picks up the book she was reading before and tucks it under her arm. They are moving, walking towards the house.

"We must also see to the organisation of the Wardens in Ferelden. Amaranthine is far north; there ought to be a stronghold in the south as well."

Loghain adjusts his shield on his back, the noise it makes as it momentarily slams against the sword gives her a second to gather her own ideas.

"A stronghold, yes. I agree," she nods, having spent the journey back home with the same thought at the back of mind.

"As I am certain you understand, we would benefit from having multiple locations for the Order," Loghain adds. "Furthermore, we would do best in continuing the recruiting in the south, at any rate."

"Any suggestions for this southern hold?" Elissa asks, climbing the stairs. Dog hurries ahead of them; he has always liked their Denerim estate more than any other change of surroundings, seems to consider it part of his natural habitat.

"Of course," he says, frowning at the idea that he might not have. Elissa feels a little pang of affection for him, spreading warmth in her chest. For all his faults, he is the single most _efficient_ man she has ever come across. "Several. I have already written a proposal for you take to the Palace when you are going there. If you approve of it, that is."

She smiles. "You didn't spend a lot of time with pastime activities while I was gone, did you?"

"Hardly." He scoffs but there's the same trace of almost reluctant friendliness in it that she recalls, buried somewhere deep down. "Did you?"

"I shall choose not to answer that," Elissa says, amused and the slightest bit ashamed.

They have reached the back entrance through the courtyard now, with the sun descending behind them. In a few weeks, Elissa knows, this garden will smell of grass and flowers and the children in the city will try to climb over the tall stone walls or slip between the servants as they walk in and out through the gates.

"Anything else?" he asks oddly charitably, as though he hasn't been the one carrying this conversation entirely.

"Not at the moment, no."

Elissa steps back to let Dog slip inside the entrance hall. Catching Loghain's gaze, she stands for a moment and just watches him, still unused to having his physical presence there where she can see it.

 _Home is with you now, with the Wardens,_ she had told Alistair once. It had been a coy, already infatuated outburst as it came over her lips, yet it proved itself true over and over again. The Wardens were her home; the Wardens are her home. As an echo – darker, deeper - of the girl who stood on the shore in Redcliffe and spoke these words she stands here now, thinking them. And it is not the _same_ because nothing is ever the same.

But it is home.

"It is good to be back," she says eventually, the words coming out as sighs of relief.

"Yes," Loghain agrees; and before he walks up to his chambers he nods, leaving her with a glimmer of a smile.

.

.

.

.

Last time he saw this drawing room, Loghain thinks as he stands in the middle of it, only the roof over its caved in and unsound walls kept it from being a ruin.

Now it looks like something fit for a teyrn's estate again. It has been a while, certainly, but the restoration seems to move quicker now than after the last war he lived through. Or perhaps the only thing that has changed is the fact that he has grown old and his mind moves slower, needs more time to adjust to the gaps between the changes.

Back then, what permeated everything – _everyone_ – was a sense of starting over, clean slates and empty hands. And the three of them, the heroes of the war, pretending along with the rest that they had no pasts while they reinvented themselves.

Loghain walks up to the window, glancing out at the darkness and the hints of life out there, on the streets.

He looks at the goblet of wine in his hand and wonders if this counts for reinvention, too. In a few days' time, Bann Sighard will assume the teyrnir of Gwaren, be formally given his new title by Queen Anora and King Alistair, drawing brand new lines in in the map of their political landscape. Everything does change, for good or ill.

Loghain wonders if he still can.

"Once," a low voice says behind him, "I trapped a boy in here for an entire afternoon."

When he glances over his shoulder he notices that Elissa smiles; she leans against the wall near the window, one foot resting on the low bench beneath the windowsill.

"What was the occasion?"

"Oh, he was some merchant's son. He had the prettiest red hair I had ever seen. And freckles." She chuckles. "They lived nearby and I wanted to be his friend. Somehow he disagreed with this, especially after I locked him up."

Loghain has to laugh at this; the scene is so vivid in his own imagination that he can almost see those brats running around in the room – a tall, shapely girl chasing a scrawny redhead. Elissa's gaze is warm and scrutinizing on his face.

"You left the supper early," she remarks.

He did. Spending a good hour in the presence of both the Arl of Redcliffe and his brother had felt more than enough, and as the topics drifted away from formalities and uninteresting tales about their respective lands to settle in speculations about the future Teyrn of Gwaren, Loghain had deemed it enough.

"You as well, it seems."

"They started to discuss politics so I left," she mutters. "If I can't say what I think, I'd rather not participate."

"Remind me again how you managed to meet with the Empress?" Loghain turns to her, arms folded; he feels less than enthusiastic about a political discussion, or even a discussion of Sighard's new status. Sighard was an ardent Anora supporter at the Landsmeet, and she's been raised well after all, she knows the importance of allies. Elissa seems to notice the reluctant notes in his voice.

"She had the most delicious pastry," she says, sighing dramatically as to underline her appreciation of the food. "It distracted me well enough."

She sips the wine in her hand and sits down on the bench, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. He doesn't look away.

There is something different about her and he has not yet decided what. Likely it's something as banal as her hair, or the absence of it, painting her in slightly different colours. He doesn't even know why he notices it when ordinarily he would not – but he has not lived like this in over thirty years either, pressed together, being at each other's mercy; has not been leading the sort of life where those little details become important.

"We ought to plan the strategy for dealing with the darkspawn," he says, cutting off his own trail of thoughts.

Elissa opens her eyes again, straightening up somewhat.

"Loghain..." she looks at him, her face a little grimace of exhaustion. "We have a lot to do, I _know_. There is so much I need to tell you and we have the Joining and I have so many people to see and just – tomorrow we should sit down and work. For tonight, can we just..."

He has not realised how worn out she must be - or realised it but not wanted to pay any attention to it, handling her emotional reactions the way he handles, or doesn't handle, his own. Elissa holds the goblet in one hand and the other fidgets with the seam of her tunic; the short blunt nails on her sword-calloused fingers make sharp contrasts against the embroidered silk.

Nodding, he takes a seat beside her. Truth be told he is thankful for the respite, too.

"Fergus says Teagan is set on marrying a foundry owner," Elissa says conversationally when they have been comfortably silent for a long time. "A girl we helped in Redcliffe. Fisherman's daughter."

"Eamon does not approves of that, I imagine." Loghain smirks into his goblet.

"Not likely, no." She scratches the back of her hand, taking another sip of her wine. "He did not bring the topic up at all tonight. Then again, neither did Teagan."

Loghain understands Eamon is pressuring his younger brother into settling down after having let him remain unmarried for a remarkably long time, long enough for the nobility to speculate about the possibility of Teagan preferring male company or being deficient in some way. But now Eamon wants to secure the family's power, or whatever is left of it. It's anything but subtle. Not that the power play of the nobility usually can pride itself of being _that_.

"He should have returned to Redcliffe by now." Loghain frowns. "I cannot imagine that the new king will need counselling from Eamon of all people."

Elissa looks down into her goblet, appearing ill-humoured behind the masks she puts on. "He's got nothing left," she says, quietly. "The templars took Connor to the Circle. Last month. So I suppose he avoids it for as long as he can."

Loghain can't argue with that.

"And I think he still has some faint idea in his mind that he can set the course of things here," Elissa turns her gaze upwards again; in an instant her face is perfectly composed. "I even suspect he would marry Teagan off to _me_ if I hadn't already proven to him I don't take kindly to that sort of thing."

"To you?" Loghain frowns. "Why on earth would he marry you?"

"Well, thank you kindly for _that_ ," she shoots him a glance, but she doesn't seem insulted – more entertained, strangely enough.

"I was not passing a personal judgement," Loghain clarifies anyway, irritated with himself for doing just that. And for discussing – of all matters in the world and all important things they could discuss – _marriage_. "But you are far from a suitable candidate."

"Oh, I know. I know." She laughs, then she has another sip of wine and glances at him, eyes glittering. "I have spent so many years avoiding men like Teagan."

"That is understandable," he replies, able to hear the sarcasm in his own voice.

"Oh, be nice." She looks amused. "There's nothing wrong with Teagan. He is a perfectly lovely man."

Loghain snorts, trying to associate the word _lovely_ with the youngest Guerrin brother, to no avail. It is true that he had showed some of his sister's spirit during the Blight and he seems, in all aspects, a somewhat _decent_ man. But unless forced by a sword against his throat to act, he appears to spend most of his time avoiding responsibility and acting liege to his older brother. Where Rowan was remarkable her brothers wallow in mediocrity - he has always held that against them, as though they would diminish the mark she had made in history by being useless.

"Unlike my mother, I simply had no no idea what I would _do_ with a perfectly lovely man," she elaborates, a smirk playing on her lips now. "Luckily, drinking darkspawn gets you out of it permanently. Or so I have heard."

He wonders if that is completely honest. Then he wonders why in the Maker's name it wouldn't be.

It had been a topic of many gossip mongers among the nobility, of course, why Bryce's youngest was well past her twentieth year and still unmarried and how they could allow her to _dally_ like that and had they so little regard for all the young noblemen who would kill their own mothers to be married into the proud Cousland lineage. She had definitely been a coveted match.

"My mother was all but ready to send me off to Gwaren some years ago," she says suddenly, the light-hearted note still lingering in her voice.

"Gwaren?" It takes him a while to make the connection. "Yes. I had forgotten."

"I haven't," she rakes a hand through her hair. "She had already been making agreements with your advisors, she said."

Loghain grimaces inwardly at the memory – they had been like vultures, throwing themselves over him as soon as he stepped foot in that bloody estate the years after Celia's death. Because he had no claim to anything by blood it was assumed he possessed the urge to immortalise himself in the shape of more heirs. It was safe to say he did not.

"People rarely ask for your opinion in these matters," he sneers, "I, for one, did not know I was supposed to want a child bride and I assume you had no desire to become one either."

"I was not a _child_ ," she replies, sounding hurt, rebuked. "But no, I didn't exactly want to. Neither did my father. He wanted me to inherit the teyrnir and besides he thought you were – well, he _objected_."

"Of course he did."

They are silent for a while.

"You didn't want to remarry?" Elissa asks eventually, in a tone that suggests she finds it a perfectly natural question.

He startles a little at her frankness. He can't remember anyone has ever asked him about these things before in his life, can't recall that anyone has been tearing at these particular lines and limits. Not even Maric, he thinks,

"How can this possibly be of any interest to you?" he retorts, harsher than intended.

Elissa looks at him over her goblet, letting the pause grow as she takes a sip.

"Because I'm a very curious person," she states, simply, and with a smile that unsettles something in him that is out of reach even for his defences, something impalpable and denied, slipping away. "You don't have to indulge me, though. I won't hold it against you."

Loghain shakes his head.

He cannot even imagine being married once more. When Celia died it had felt done, _finished_ , that part of his life forever taken care of and sealed shut. He had married a stranger once, all those years ago; made a wife of a woman he knew next to nothing about and who barely knew him. Of course they learned with time. Merged together in some ways and found silences and strategies that mended the rest, things to breach the distances and fractions. The idea of replacing that with some nobleman's brat – a brat who would have been held hostage in Gwaren while Loghain spent his time in Denerim, no less - had always seemed repulsive to him, no matter how powerful that marriage would have made him. Or _especially_ because of that.

"No," he answers, after a long time. "I did not want to marry again."

"I see."

Elissa says nothing else; she looks thoughtful and even more tired than before.

"For the record, I hope you remembered to thank your father," Loghain says, to end the conversation. "Gwaren is a bloody awful place."

He is rewarded with a wide grin that spreads across her face. Then she leans against him so they sit shoulder to shoulder, her warmth against the fabric of his shirt. Neither of them speak for a while, although the dimly lit room seems to be full of their voices all the same. It's not until Elissa yawns by his side that Loghain realises how late it must be. Then she suddenly raises her goblet, looking at him.

"To the Grey Wardens," she says, grimly.

"To the Grey Wardens," he echoes.

* * *

 


	16. Miles to go before I sleep

A few days pass without interruptions of any kind and Elissa begins to think of it as _rest_ , being back in Denerim. Even the weather is nice - warm and dry and inviting – and because of it, the Wardens spend most of their waking hours in the garden, poring over maps and books. Elissa and Loghain take turns in training the recruits while Hedin lectures them; they keep busy between the long sessions of food in the great hall and tea in the drawing room or outdoors and it seems even the darkspawn leave them alone for the time being – no reports of attacks are finding their way to them, at any rate.

Tonight, however, that respite will end.

Elissa stretches out in the bath, head tipped back and eyes closed and half expecting to be able to drift off to sleep when the patter of feet approaches and she can hear the servants whisper among themselves.

"...going to be late... the teyrn will not be pleased..."

At least half of the girls in his service are scared of her, Fergus has informed her conversationally over a mug of ale. Elissa is an anomaly in this house, falling in between the neatly drawn lines and the clearly defines roles and she can understand their wariness.

"Am I running late?" she asks helpfully. Squinting with one eye still closed, she can see the blur of bodies coming closer and what appears to be the braver one of the girls nodding fervently.

"Yes, Commander."

They have at least ceased to call her _my lady_ , she thinks, climbing out of the still warm, pleasantly scented bath water and stepping into the towels being held out for her. There's a clash of oils and ointments in the air, a tang of incense burning somewhere nearby and she takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the coming event.

"Are you hungry, Commander?" a tall, somewhat older maid asks, gesturing for one of the younger girls to carry the water away. Elissa thinks about it for a moment before nodding.

"Some bread and cheese will do."

She is being rubbed dry and oiled and then rubbed dry _again_ as the oils grease her skin a little too much – the most nervous of the maids apologises for this a hundred times, stuttering the words until Elissa begs her to stop, grateful the Wardens don't have many servants – and then the tall maid arrives with both food and the dress.

It is always the same with the dresses. After picking apart a chunk of cheese and shoving it in her mouth, she stands up and lets the rich fabric fall down over her head, spreading her arms and tilting her body in the ways the many efficient hands working at her appearance prompt.

And when they are finished the dress, as expected, looks peculiar on her.

Not necessarily bad, but definitely _odd_ , like her body doesn't understand how to carry the garments. Warriors are not meant to wear dresses. Elissa turns in front of the vanity mirror, shaking her head at the flimsy fabric that seems too tight over her bosom, too revealing and not sturdy enough to endure a night of feasting and dancing; she looks to the servants for a confirming smile or a headshake.

"Am I meant to go to the Palace dressed like this?" she asks when nobody says anything.

"This is the dress His Grace had made specially for you, Commander." The girl who is being forced to answer looks confused. "Is the dress not to your liking?"

Sighing and reaching for another piece of cheese, Elissa looks at her own reflection again. _Please, don't wear heavy plate armour_ , had been Fergus' only stipulation as he informed her of this event and her own involvement in its aftermath. After having stroked both the leather armour and her drakeskin suit longingly, Elissa had agreed to be decorous and docile for once. Maker knows she does not use those traits very often.

"No, it's nothing," she says, tucking away the conflicting sentiments. "Carry on."

As she descends to the great hall much later, Elissa feels like she has been sent back in time, like she has landed somewhere in her mother's ideal vision for her – well dressed and _proper_ , carrying herself like the well bred woman she is. She is wearing a heavy, intricate necklace, a gold bracelet and even a loose braid of silky hair tucked into her own short and wiry curls, to give her a luscious sort of hairdo befitting a noblewoman not spending most of her time killing darkspawn.

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Fergus exclaims as she walks into the drawing room where he is waiting for her. "Who are you and what have you done to my smelly little sister?"

"Charming as ever." She folds her arms across her chest, only to catch a glimpse of her own breasts. This is _definitely_ not something she is accustomed to. Her mother would certainly never pick out dresses like that back when she could still get her daughter to wear them at all.

"Nah, I meant it as a compliment," he says, grin broadening. "You look lovely."

"I would not suggest getting used to it," she mutters. "I normally avoid lovely."

He pretends to take in the sight of her in a dramatic fashion, which makes her smile slightly. They used to play with their parents clothes when the servants didn't catch them in time and Fergus would always imitate their aunt Dora, nearly fainting with excitement as Elissa paraded about in some ill-fitting piece of clothing. _Marvellous dress, dear, simply marvellous_!

Here, in the corridor, she spots Loghain and Cauthrien, walking side by like like solemn guards on duty, reluctantly indulgent towards the lord and lady of the house who are running off on wicked adventures. It is a most amusing image, she concludes as they draw nearer.

"Ever the sly little minx, are you not?" Fergus goes on, oblivious to their almost-company; Elissa purposely avoids looking at them, too. "I know you; you want to make certain the King is aware of what he has lost – all of it, so to speak."

She winces. "Don't be such a dirty bloody _dog_ , Fergus."

Her brother chuckles; she has, in truth, missed their brawling, inappropriate conversations that would never fail to lead their parents to the conclusion that they had raised animals instead of children. She isn't sure Loghain appreciates the topic, however. In fact, the strange look he is giving her suggests quite the opposite. Fergus still has not noticed that they are no longer alone.

"The Queen will have to counterattack tonight, no doubt," he says, shaking his head. "What weapons will she use, I wonder?"

"The carriage has arrived," Loghain's voice pierces the very air of the room; he is sounding as grim as he looks. Elissa is caught between a guffaw and a sympathetic groan on her brother's behalf.

"Er..." Fergus looks suitably embarrassed. "I didn't mean..." his voice trails off.

"I should think not," Loghain retorts. He stands close to them now, looking particularly imposing tonight, especially in comparison to Fergus who appears to shrink. That is a sign of maturity, indeed, for her brother to blush like a boy when he has put his foot in his mouth, Elissa thinks, smiling apologetically at Loghain.

Beside him, Cauthrien is having a difficult time keeping a straight face. Her jaw is taut and her gaze safely averted, which makes her seem composed enough, yet there is a twitch around the corners of her mouth telling a different story.

Elissa suddenly wishes they were all going, that the feast wasn't going to be stiff pleasantries between uncomfortable nobles but rather a different kind of gathering, an extension of the past few days. But that is not the case. They have been trying the breadth of the collective nobility of Ferelden enough already; Loghain attending the new teyrn's ceremonious welcome feast might be the last straw. Unfortunately, Elissa thinks almost to her own surprise, as she would have enjoyed his company.

She wants to say it, but there is no decent way to do that, of course. Not that she _would_. And not _now_ , not with him looking at her like she is a stranger, a frown appearing in his face as Elissa takes Fergus' arm. She nods towards Loghain and Cauthrien.

"Before my brother further insult the majesties of Ferelden, I will take him to the Palace," she states, receiving a quiet chuckle from Cauthrien who finally has relented a bit. "Let us make our bows, Fergus."

"I wish you an enjoyable evening, Your Grace," Cauthrien says. "You too, Commander."

Loghain says nothing but when Elissa quickly touches the sleeve of his shirt, his firm gaze softens a bit.

"I will return with a full report," she says, quietly. She doesn't have to add that she will return with this report no matter the time of her arrival back home and he doesn't have to add that he will still be awake by then, working. Certain things are habitual by now.

"Very well," he replies simply, nodding.

.

.

.

.

Several hours later, Elissa wonders if she is too old and too dignified to weep with frustration. Because if she is _not_ , then she considers sitting down on one of the old statues in the avenue leading from the Palace to Fort Drakon and bawling her eyes out.

Naturally she doesn't.

She is the sodding Hero of Ferelden and crying isn't among her duties.

After the feast - and a most unexpected audience that is the very reason for the frustration - she takes a walk, alone in the streets as the tightly woven fabric of dusk transforms the city into shadows and darkness. She walks up and down the streets, wary of the dangers of relying solely on her physical strength and the daggers hidden under the layers of silk but taking a twisted pleasure in endangering herself like that, too. She walk for a long time, picking the empty slots, the winding roads and narrow alleyways only to take cover as voices approach or the sighting of other living creatures disrupts her solitude.

It is much later than what would be considered _reasonable_ hours for visits by the time she returns to the house, finding herself in the corridor upstairs all the same. She ought to get to bed, by all means. Wash her face and fall back into clean, cool sheets. Yet she finds herself tapping the door to Loghain's chambers, steered by a rhythm of other things than sensible choices.

And he opens the door, still fully dressed like she expected and stepping aside without a word.

"They're making me the Arlessa of Amaranthine," she says without preamble as Loghain closes the door behind her.

"They are?" Loghain raises an eyebrow.

"They _are_." She rakes a hand through her hair, pacing the floor. "I don't even... They just... I am to be a figurehead of Amaranthine so the bloody nobility can sleep safe and sound in their beds."

Loghain makes a little sound that is almost a snort, or a short laugh.

"Say what you like, but discontent nobility makes for an unsound strategy," he says, dryly.

It doesn't have to be said that _he_ should know all about that. He walks up to the table by the windows and pours a mug of tea that he hands her, before doing the same for himself.

"Huh," Elissa grunts, sitting down in the armchair by his bed, while he returns to the desk at the opposite end of the room. He is working, still. She spots the books he is using to write down the records of the Fereldan Wardens, their progress and history.

They are, indeed, making her the Arlessa of Amaranthine. The more she considers the words and their meaning, the less she can make of them. Perhaps it is the wine that has got to her head, but nothing about this seems to make _sense_ to her – not the title itself, nor the way she was introduced to it: by Alistair in his office, as the festivities went on without them and Elissa spiralled back into feeling like a pawn. She has been a queen for too long, she establishes with a grimace; being a pawn upsets her balance.

The title carries so many meanings, digging deeper and deeper into her mind, nagging at old pride and half-healed wounds. It used to be a very real possibility. Howe was the father of two sons after all - Nathaniel who was gruff and vain and Thomas, a few years younger than her, constantly a terrified stuttering mess in front of the teyrn's daughter who played with swords – and Elissa's own father never truly considered himself above the Howes, like he should have. It was always there, over the years. Now it's written in stone. She grinds her teeth.

If she closes her eyes, she can still see her own signature at the bottom of that contract, the one saying that the lands of Arl Rendon Howe are to be transferred to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Even though she remembers it, she can barely trace the memory back to her own life; she signed this in a different existence altogether, it seems.

"I take it the banns are not satisfied with leaving the title in abeyance?" Loghain asks, rummaging through a pile of parchments on his desk.

"That would be correct." Elissa sighs. "From what Alistair told me, he and Anora have tried to delay the decision. The Orlesians who are running Vigil's Keep at the moment kindly offered to name a commander of their own, to end the debate. Apparently some of the banns were even showing signs of being willing to accept _that_."

Loghain scoffs. "They were left with little choice, then."

"Seems like it."

She has been dreading this even before tonight. Over the past few months she has felt the development of it and put the very _idea_ far back in her own mind, farther back than Morrigan and that night in Redcliffe, buried it soundly among things she doesn't dwell on. After the restoration, the arling would fall under Grey Warden command, that's what they said. It would belong to the Wardens, no further explanation. No figurehead to issue the commands, no title to swear fealty to. And Elissa _knows_ this is not tenable. The lords and ladies need their betters just as much as they need their vassals. This is the way of things. She knows this and she has neglected it even so, hoping that issues they do not speak of will cease to exist. The logic of the nobility, wearing a bit thin now.

"It is not a terrible idea," Loghain says to her mild surprise once she has found enough words in her frustration to explain the situation further. "Yours is a familiar name. And you know the games already."

"They know me as Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. I doubt they'd swear fealty to _her_."

Loghain snorts. "False modesty does not suit you."

"It's not _false_." Picking at her cuticles, Elissa feels the involuntary frown deepen as she thinks about what he is saying.

He shoots her a sceptical glance. "Is that so?"

She falls silent, glaring at the mug of tea beside her. The tea is still so hot that when she runs a finger along the rim, it feels like tiny little claws of heat prickle her skin. Loghain has probably demanded it, because he prefers it very hot - so hot it burns the tip of her tongue if she tries to drink it - and gets annoyed when it cools too quickly.

"I don't _want_ to do this." Her confession surprises her somewhat, but Loghain merely nods, which encourages her to go on. "It's silly of me, of course. I was raised to govern a teyrnir but I always thought I could escape, somehow."

Loghain gives her a lingering glance, without speaking. Elissa feels the childish indignation prickle at her thoughts, colouring them with a meaningless rebellion against something that cannot be changed. She is not _entitled_ to this. People have suffered a Blight, people have died in front of their eyes and she sits here, moping about being given a bloody arling. Disgusted with herself, she clears her throat.

"It's only a formality, of course," Loghain points out. His eyes are icily blue as always, but she imagines there's a feather-light thread of something warmer in them as he looks at her. "You will not have to do much more than attend a few gatherings here and there. And make the overall decisions. I am convinced you will succeed at that quite well."

Smiling gratefully, she leans back in her seat. Loghain turns his attention away from her and continues with his writing. Elissa watches him work with a growing sense of calmness enclosing her; she is not alone. She has Fergus and the Wardens and she has _Loghain_ , who might not have any desire to be her second – or anybody's second - but who is just that, whether he likes it or not.

"It gives the Order an opportunity to set an example," she says after a while, thinking of Sophia Dryden and Avernus, remembering suddenly the haunted keep and its inhabitants. They will need to travel there, too; she has almost forgotten. "Which could be very useful, of course."

"Of course." He puts down the quill and shoves the book to the side. Then he fidgets with a vellum, rolls it up and seals it.

She looks at him. "Will you help me?"

"I think a seneschal is a vastly better option," he replies, not looking up.

"I meant with the actual governing."

Lifting his gaze from the work at the desk, he observes her quietly for a long time, long enough to make her feel stupid where she sits, _expecting_ things from him. She has no idea when she started doing that or why. It seems a bad habit, considering.

But then Loghain nods. "Should you find that your upbringing and the wide selection of lieges are not enough, I am here," he says, and his voice takes a strange turn at the last part. "Though I scarcely believe you will need my help."

"I always want your help," she says, deliberately tweaking the words and regretting it immediately as they travel across the room, growing in importance before her eyes.

Loghain gives her a long, hesitant look; she sighs and turns her attention back to the cup next to her and her frayed fingernails that she can pick at, faintly hearing her mother admonish her for that nervous habit. The silence that falls has laboured edges coloured by the orders and duties that have been tossed around all night; Elissa feels her stomach plummet a little as Loghain looks at her again.

"Will you have to install yourself in Amaranthine right away?" he asks eventually.

"No, not right now," Elissa says, grateful to be _talking_ again, and takes a sip of her tea. "I got a respite, until the darkspawn war is definitely over." She smiles grimly. "If they want a Commander as Arlessa, they will have to adjust to the laws of battle."

Loghain half-smiles back at her. "We will have to assume the First Warden does not object to this then?"

"I asked," she says, frowning. "Alistair said the First Warden was neutral to the idea. He didn't wish to discuss it further."

"We will find out in time what the Aderfels truly thinks about it, I wager." Loghain looks thoughtful.

"Yes," she agrees, nodding. "Or Alistair will find out and wait to tell me until some fancy assembly where I can embarrass myself by walking around half-naked-" she points at her chest, which makes Loghain look away, "and feel like _strangling_ everyone."

He says nothing in response to that. There is nothing to _say_ in response to that, she assumes.

"It was a very odd night," she mutters, rubbing her temples. She feels the new title as a beat of her heart, written on her body, echoing in her ears and she can't outrun it, no matter what else she tries to think about. The arling is hers now, for the good of Ferelden. It is difficult to argue with _that_. "Seeing Sighard as the new teyrn of Gwaren-"

Her voice fades as she's waiting for Loghain to respond.

"There is little sense in giving something as banal as titles sentimental value," he sneers, almost on cue.

She wonders what he _feels_ about it, when and if he does at all. Growing up, he was the Hero and the Teyrn and she can't imagine anyone else holding that spot in the long line of nobility showing up at Landsmeets and formal gatherings; in her head she still sees him there, even if he has morphed into something else in her mind, his title in those particular surroundings remains.

"I suppose it's not," she says, squaring her shoulders and tilting her head, to try to get a peek at what he is writing. "But the nobility is hardly a _sensible_ lot."

They are kingmakers, the two of them. Kingmakers and warlords, so deft at running other people's lives for them, assuming control over those lenient enough to let them. And utterly confounded when they are the ones being manipulated. Elissa shakes her head, wondering if it is flattering or terrifying to find paths running from her mind to Loghain's, to feel that particular light of understanding, of _sameness_ in his trail of thoughts.

Loghain glances at her – raising an eyebrow – and then he smiles, a proper smile washing away the sneer and the steel, a smile that leaves her somewhat unsettled beneath all the wine and frustration. And she thinks, sinking back in the armchair, that it might not be flattering and more than a little terrifying, but it's also a warm rush of comfort.

.

.

.

.

They perform the Joining shortly after the break of dawn.

For a ceremony it is rather unceremoniously handled, Loghain observes, standing behind the short line of recruits. The room feels chilly and damp, a wetness in the air seeping in through the half-opened windows and finding them where they have gathered, the people in this room who are to constitute a record of his mission this past winter. A proof of how well he has handled his duties. Death will be the judge.

Loghain wonders if anyone in this poorly fed, mismatched lot will pass their test.

The first recruits he found – two decent, seasoned footsoldiers serving under the teyrn of Highever; they had volunteered to join the Wardens, the Blight still raw in their memories – stand next to a man Jenner had insisted on. Loghain can't remember the man's name nor his own reason for complying with the other Warden's idiocy. Then there is a knight – Ser Adrianna – who had been defending a small village more or less on her own when the darkspawn hordes moved past. A little to the right, as though they are a separate entity, stand Brann and his sister, Ada. They had encountered them both outside Highever and when Brann voiced his interest in joining, his sister insisted on doing the same. Now they are looking at each other; Ada has the face of someone being sent to her execution, her mouth a taut white line in her face.

It _is_ an execution of sorts, of course. An intricate form of penalty, leaving the verdict, the choice between life and death to the Maker and the darkspawn. The monsters themselves deciding who are strong enough to fight them.

Two deaths. Four Wardens. These are the scant notes he allows himself to make in his head as they carry out their ritual and welcome their new brothers and sisters – although he doesn't call them that, not even Hedin calls them that, as though those are names they will have to earn. Loghain finds the whole thing unreasonably distasteful.

They lose Brann and the man Jenner recruited and Loghain watches them die, thinking of what makes a Grey Warden, wondering if it is about balance or strength or the impalpable, seemingly insignificant thing beyond and before those traits, making all the difference.

Afterwards, they burn the corpses by the edge of the teyrn's grounds; their actions are half-covered by the blooming garden and the scent of the newly fallen rain in the grass. The fire dies down quickly and the ashes of the bodies linger, sticking to the damp walls as the death around them crumbles into flakes and grains landing on their skin.

In the corner of his eye, he spots Hedin and – far away, speaking to the new Wardens – Elissa.

"What now?" Loghain asks the elf.

"I... " Hedin begins, his voice a croaked groan.

He looks far gone, Loghain notices suddenly and can't stop staring, like he's seeing his companion for the first time. And Hedin is not well at all. His face is sweaty and his hands shake as he seeks the nearby bench for support. Sitting down he bows his head, resting his forehead against his knees and coughing, a rattling noise that makes it sound like his lungs are falling apart with the rest of him.

"Are you ill?" Loghain folds his arms across his chest where he stands in front of him.

"No," Hedin replies after a while. "Nothing worse than usual."

"Indeed? You look near death," Loghain says, realising once he has already spoken that it might not be the best choice of words.

"I am. It's the Calling. The Joining takes its toll these days." He looks up, seeking Loghain's eyes. Without saying anything else he rolls up a sleeve of his shirt and holds out his arm. "Look."

Under the shirt his arm is bloodied and scaly, and severely bruised as though the body is still struggling to stop the transformation. Loghain stifles an involuntary shudder. The Orlesian has not given any hint of illness in their months together – of course, Loghain had known Hedin is feeling the Calling but he has never been able to imagine it quite like _this_.

He is, in all things and without mercy, becoming a darkspawn.

Hedin nods, and for a second Loghain wonders if he has said out loud what he is thinking.

"We turn on ourselves, in the end."

"This is why dying Wardens go to fight the darkspawn? To join them?" Loghain bites back a grimace of disgust. He remembers the night in the tower, back when Maric had been captured by Orlesian Wardens and darkspawns, remembers those creatures that he had found so strange back then – blending with the the idea of dying like one, trapped inside one,partaking in a never-ending cycle of death. He looks away.

"It is preferable to die in the Deep Roads rather than becoming a monster in plain sight," the elf shrugs. "Safer, too. Nobody can say for certain what happens to Wardens that go there to die, of course."

"Of course." Loghain snorts. This pattern of speculation and lack of certainties will forever remind him of the Wardens and their motivations.

"It is a long journey. At first you feel better, stronger," Hedin says, after a moment's silence. "Your body adapts to the new strength. Then it should level out for many years – if you're young, at least." He catches his breath, giving Loghain a glance. "When you start to feel the Calling it is a matter of time before your body finally succumbs."

"A matter of time?" Loghain asks, shifting his weight. There's a heavy sound at the back of his mind, dangerous and beckoning all at once. He imagines how it would feel – how it _will_ feel – when the sounds and the pull inside overwhelm him; imagines how he will sink deeper into the near-madness of it; he wonders _when_ and _how_ and _how long_.

The elf is quiet for a moment, his breathing becoming less laboured eventually as the rigid look in his eyes subsides.

"For you, several years at least. For me it will be months, likely much less."

It is a simple enough verdict. Loghain swallows a taste of bile at it, the unease from before not leaving him alone, imprinted on his very thoughts. Battle will kill him first, he tells himself. There used to be a faint joy attached to that knowledge, used to bring him a double-edged form of relief, of consolation. He would consider the impending end a blessing – a definite and certain change, clean slate devoid of duty and responsibilities or even possibilities that he can't resist reaching for because he is ever the man to catch at straws.

"I see," Loghain says, eyes sweeping over the garden.

Hedin nods again, as a finality this time, a confirmation before he gets to his feet – not without a grimace – and staggers out of sight.

Loghain glances at the commander, wondering if she knows.

Elissa sits hunched up by the pile of remains with her sleeves turned up and mumbles something that Loghain assumes are prayers or pointless bits of canticles - as she once revealed to him that she is wont to use when the words fail her. She still _does_ that - the praying - and it still surprises him. There is something both compelling and confounding in her scraps of faith just as it had been equal parts infuriating and sympathetic to find that Maric, after years of assassination attempts and staged coups, still believed that people were good until they proved him otherwise.

"Make sure this is cleaned up properly," she rises to her feet, brushing her hands against her legs.

Loghain nods. "Of course."

"It's a good result, all things considered." Her face is lit by a little smile, private and discreet.

"They are untrained," Loghain says, not returning it. "Hapless fools who are untrained to fight darkspawn. They will last for a few days."

"I doubt they are _all_ hapless," Elissa points out. "You recruited them after all. And they survived. We will continue training them tomorrow, once they've had a good night's sleep."

"The south will have better soldiers." He scrapes large piles of ash together, using his boot.

The few days since her return have been filled with planning for the future, with strategies of past and present, speculations and mutual agreements. They have done little else than work, tightly wound together and around their obligations; there are times with her and with this new life of his, Loghain realises, when he is so riddled with things he has yet to do and efforts yet to be made, that his past fades into a mere backdrop. And there lies the true comfort, likely the only one he will ever be granted – the only one he deserves.

_Several years, at least._

The words resound through him again, disrupting his defences and rearranging them in different shapes and ways. He no longer finds comfort in the thought of his own mortality.

There are so _many_ things left to do.

"I'll make sure they get a warm meal and a hot bath and then we can sit down and discuss the training again."

Elissa's voice makes him jolt back, shaking his head slightly, brushing away the lingering sentiments.

"Yes," he says, still half-way inside this gloomy layer of thought as she smiles at him and clears it up, somehow.

.

.

.

.

Loghain is in the middle of an uncomfortably warm and fractured sleep when the noise outside the window wakes him. At first he doesn't realise that the knocking - careful and soft like fingers raking against the glass - is happening outside the Fade, then his body reacts to the possibility of attack and he sits up in bed, the sheets around him damp and constricting.

Struggling out of them, he rises to his feet and stands for a moment in the middle of the room, trying to navigate in the grey light flooding the bedchamber; the squares of moonlight makes it even more difficult, maze-like and deceptive. While he is searching for a shirt among the clothes thrown over the chair next to the window he spots a hooded figure outside. Well. At least darkspawn don't announce their presence.

He unbolts the large window, sliding it open with little effort. When the figure lets the hood slide a fraction of an inch, just enough to reveal the outlines of a face, he realises that it is the rogue he hired months ago. She frowns at his state of undress but then simply hands him a bundle of parchments.

"I found your witch," she says, matter-of-factly.

Your witch. Loghain flinches at the thought; he allows himself to remember very little of that night, even less of the ritual itself or the shady reasoning behind performing it in the first place. He recalls, when he must, the scent of incense and the bitter taste of roots at the back of his tongue and her voice, slightly broken as though she was forcing herself as much as she was forcing him. It had been something about her that night, something raw and unbidden – not for one second does he believe the marsh witch had motivations concerning anybody but herself and her own selfish curiosity, but he had found it difficult to blame her because of those notes in her voice, the way she could not bear to look him in the eyes. He had found it difficult to blame her because he was not ordered.

He had agreed to do the deed – _volunteered_ to do it, even.

The witch and whatever monstrous creature that will spawn from her blood ritual are his responsibilities now. It lands in him with a wave of nausea.

"Where was she?" The night air is chilly against his chest, sharp as his own voice.

"West Hill. But she keeps moving around. Headed towards the coast, it seemed, when I left for Denerim." The woman nods towards the papers in his hands. "I've documented it thoroughly."

"Was she...?" he says, feeling strangely incapable of finishing the sentence.

"Yes." The woman looks at him for a while, the questions she doesn't pose visible in her face.

It must seem odd, what he has asked of her. Bastard children are certainly common enough to not require a secretive missive costing a massive amount of gold – bastard children of men like Loghain, who have no titles or lands to inherit, can appear out of thin air without anybody raising an eyebrow. Yet here he stands.

"Thank you." He nods, his body heavy like lead.

The woman waits only until he has given her the gold they had agreed upon, then she steps back into the night and Loghain sits down on his bed, staring at the documents in his hands.


	17. A matter of trust

"So she wasn't lying." Elissa rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs heavily.

"Did you believe she was?" Loghain stretches out as much as he can in the uncomfortably small armchair by the window where he is seated, looking at the pile of parchments spread out in front of them, and at his commander.

She is huddled up at the foot-end of her bed, still wearing nothing but a tunic and a facial expression that makes her look half-asleep despite that their conversation has stretched out over a good hour by now. Outside, the sun is rising.

His neck creaks a bit when he turns his head, looking over his shoulder through the window, at the night dissolving into day. He leans back, folding his arms across his chest.

"I was _hoping._ " She looks apologetic, ill at ease as this imagined flaw in her strategy is being exposed. As though _he_ doesn't do just that – plans for the worst and hopes for the best. Or used to, back when he nursed such feeble things as hope, for anything. "Even with magic, I assumed it wouldn't really be the most certain thing, to... _well_ -"

They have never said it out loud, that last part of her sentence.

He seldom completes that trail of thought in his own head, either, so he isn't certain how he would phrase it. To conceive a child through a blood magic ritual? To pay a blood debt in order to ascertain better odds for surviving the Blight? To play this right into a lunatic apostate's hands? Loghain shakes his head.

"I got the impression the marsh witch was rather aware of all possible outcomes," he says slowly. "She took precautions for all of them, I assume."

Light has its way even now, here in her bedroom, the rays of dim morning sun falling on the floor beneath the windows and making the dust appear in the air, fluttering languidly around them. Loghain wonders how he will disappear without any servant noticing him and wonders too, momentarily, what he is doing in here in the first place.

When he hired the rogue he had intended to deal with any kind of aftermath himself, discreetly and efficiently without ever involving anybody else, thinking that the less they discuss this, the better. Even a couple of hours ago, with the records in his hands and his chest heavy with disgust, he had considered continuing this mission alone. This is the rhythm of thirty years, hammered dully into his bones - one year of difference cannot change him.

Or perhaps it can. He is sitting here after all. He burst in here in after the ill-founded decision appeared in his mind, and she opened the door, with a bewildered expression on her face at the reversed roles and shifting parts in their play.

Amazingly, he doesn't regret it.

Then suddenly Elissa meets his gaze with a pained grimace. "This is my fault."

She means the witch, the idea she had presented to him in Redcliffe, the one order she never gave and Loghain shakes his head. .

"It is not." He draws himself up, or makes an effort to. "And it serves no one that we sit here and brood over it."

"Right," she says incredulously, giving him a dark look. "We will just leave it, like that."

He has a vague recollection of a conversation many months ago when she had claimed to not dwell on this mistake – he remembers it because it was a conversation that had shaped the months that followed, formed his own motivations slightly, as much as anything can possibly form his stone-set ways. She does that, sometimes. Overlaying concerns that are running deep, covering them with momentum and composure, ignoring their claims on her mind and heart until they return, plunging her into deep pits of guilt and always wrapped in feeling of surprise, of being taken aback. He knows this; he nurses the same idiotic habit.

"We do not _leave_ it," he argues, feeling very old. "There is still time to deal with the consequences."

Neither of them state the obvious: that they have no plan for what they will do once they find her. No prospect that doesn't seem revolting or useless or both, not one single idea that sheds any light on ways how to best deal with the beast they likely have created.

That _he_ has created, he reminds himself for good measure.

"Very well." Elissa nods, smoothing out the remains of emotions still visible on her face; dragging a hand through the short, disorderly hair, she picks up one of the letters again. "You're right. We simply need a new plan."

"We do."

"Yes."

"Do you have an inkling as to where she could be travelling?" Loghain asks to break the circle their conversation runs in. "Does she have contacts somewhere - other apostates perhaps?"

Elissa is silent for a short while, her hands shuffling the scattered records together in a neat pile that she instantly begins to fidget with again.

"Morrigan doesn't care for other mages, as far as I know. Or other _people_." She looks up, searching for his eyes. "Flemeth practically raised her to be bait in... I don't know, magical power games; she wouldn't trust anyone enough to turn to them if she needed help."

"Unless she was offering them something in return?"

"That... yes, I suppose."

The idea settles slowly at the back of his mind once he has spoken it. It is not reassuring in the least.

"She is giving birth to an old God," he says, feeling the weight of each word in his mouth. They still carry the flavours of her enchanting roots and the sour wine, intermingling with his thoughts in a way that leaves him slightly out of breath. "I cannot believe she would be the only one interested in that possibility."

"Maker's breath, no." Elissa purses her lips. "In the light of what we know about the darkspawn now... if they can speak, they must be able to think. Reason. That leaves us with the possibility of darkspawn that are almost human."

"They would have uses for one of their Gods, reborn," Loghain nods.

"The... darkspawn you told me about, before. The one Maric met?"

"The one allied to the Orlesians?"

"Was he, really?" She frowns. "Somehow I doubt that darkspawn ally with nations."

"Even if they merely ally with those corrupt enough to oblige, this one was definitely with the Orlesians," Loghain returns, a flood of frustration welling up in him at the memory. This is one of the things he will never forgive Maric for, not for as long as he lives: waking up one morning, finding himself not only in charge of the country but also the surrogate father of an all but orphaned boy while the King himself was chasing tales and adventures with storybook heroes. Loghain's verdict of that bloody year had scarcely improved when Maric - safely returned and actively governing again - confessed his liaison with an Orlesian mage that had resulted in a bastard. At least he had possessed enough decency to find it slightly _awkward_ , not that it mended matters – or seemed to spoil Maric's overall mood.

With a shake of his head, Loghain releases himself from the past.

"Okay. I'm sure that is not very important." Elissa shrugs, spreading her hands. "What I wanted to know was why? What did he want? Do you know? Did Maric tell you?"

"He was a darkspawn." Loghain squares his shoulders, leaning back. "I did not think to ask about what he _wanted_."

"Did Maric?"

What Loghain remembers is this: a creature who was more darkspawn than man, trying to collaborate with the First Enchanter and his supporters, a creature he had wanted to interrogate properly before killing. Maric had prevented that, listening to the fool's plea to die with what little dignity he had left. As though being willingly stabbed to death by Loghain's soldiers was an honourable man's defeat.

"Maric did not reveal much," he admits, finding it slightly wounding even now. He had asked, of course; during the months that followed the rescue at the tower, Loghain had prodded and coaxed and threatened until Maric sent him back to Gwaren on some feigned business. "We arrived too late to the Tower to capture anyone who mattered. The one we caught died before we could get anything useful out of him. I recall one of those who got away was calling himself the Architect – he seemed to be significant."

"Was he a darkspawn as well?"

"I think so, yes."

"So Maric never- I mean, he didn't... talk to you about this?" Her eyes narrow as she observes him.

"No," Loghain says, abruptly.

"I thought, I always assumed..." she sighs and looks to the side, tip of her tongue pressing against her lower lip as if she's struggling with herself to make the intrusive question come out right. "You were his right hand, were you not?"

Unwanted as this foray into his personal history is, Loghain finds himself too tired to respond with anger or refusal.

"It was never... uncomplicated," he admits, wondering if he has any words to express it, any way to phrase this that isn't hollow and bitter, a pathetic old man's memories of an unhealed past. It disgusts him to think it has to be that way, the he cannot rise above it. He clears his throat, determined to _speak_. "I don't know what happened to Maric during those months when he was gone, so all of this is just speculation, but I assume it had something to do with the Wardens. He would not have wanted me to know that. I already opposed the decision to lift the ban on the Order in Ferelden."

"I can imagine," she says, softly.

They are both quiet for a while, listening to the slow stir of footfalls and hushed-up voices in the corridor, the sound of the servants, of the day that begins. It will be a while yet before they wake anyone up, he supposes. The commander seems oblivious – or accustomed - to the issue of the maids not finding her alone in her bedroom, so he merely sinks back in his seat.

"So what are your thoughts on our near future then?" he asks.

"Before we travel south, I suggest we make our way to West Hill."

Loghain nods.

"I also have another proposal," she continues, crossing her legs and pulling the tunic down over her knees, forcefully, as though she can stretch the fabric itself through sheer will. It rides up within seconds. "We went to the old Warden base before, a keep near the coast. Soldier's Peak. It's a two days' journey from Denerim, I guess. If we don't find Morrigan in West Hill, we could go there."

"Why?"

"I have a... well, there's a mage there who owes me a favour. He might have information."

"A mage?" Loghain raises an eyebrow, a growing impatience clouding his thoughts. She seems less than willing to share this with him, which is unusual and hits the notes of doubt that still surround his idea of her, even after almost a year under her command, even if he believes she would die for Ferelden in a heartbeat. For lesser things than that, too, most likely.

Elissa's smile is as washed out as her voice when she turns her head and looks at him, seemingly going over possible answers in her head.

"It's a long story. This mage – we, well, _I_ could have executed him or cast him out of the Order for his crimes. But I didn't. In return he promised me to share his... research with us."

"He's a Warden, too?" Loghain wonders if she has some sentimental personal aversion against executing criminals or if they all just happen to be of use to her. Then he berates himself for the depreciating thoughts and sighs heavily. "What makes him trustworthy?"

"He was a Warden once." She hesitates. "A long time ago. Now he has no one, he shouldn't even be alive; I sincerely doubt he would be _capable_ of betraying our trust, even if he wanted to. You will understand when we meet with him."

Loghain realises he will not be offered any further explanation than this.

Elissa leans forward, resting her chin in her hands as she watches him. Her gaze is beginning to recover its clarity and focus even if she still looks tired in a profound way that can't be cured with a few hours of sleep.

"This is such a _mess,_ " she grunts eventually.

"It is."

Loghain wishes, of all things, that the former Warden-Commander was here. Maric aside, Duncan would be the only one who would have known what had truly happened, what secrets they had uncovered in the Deep Roads. Secrets that Loghain spent the better part of a year afterwards trying to learn, only stopping short of actually _forcing_ Maric to speak. Although he doubts Duncan would have been willing to disclose much, there would still be a possibility, if the man was still alive. And Loghain would not let him slip away so easily this time, not like he had during their hurried conversations in Ostagar, where they both had been tight-lipped and suspicious of each other, threaded around the important business like two idiots putting their own pride before the safety of Ferelden.

But then, of course, Duncan had fallen like the other pawns at the battlefield and Loghain had returned to Denerim, none the wiser.

"Do you think we will ever sort it out?" The light touch of hope in Elissa's voice skitters across his path of thoughts and impressions, clouding them slightly.

"I do," he hears himself say.

Elissa chuckles, somewhat unexpectedly. "Sometimes you truly _are_ no more forthcoming than a stone, Loghain. But I appreciate the vote of confidence."

He looks out the window again, where an unstable weather seems to announce its presence. There are hints of grey clouds behind the rays of sunlight that are beginning to warm the back of his head through the glass.

The commander has shifted position on the bed, bent over the pile of records once more. She sorts through them, putting the letters in different piles; then she reaches for a pack on the floor, barely keeping her balance while she's rummaging through it, hauling up a large and familiar scroll – her collection of maps that he borrowed recently.

As she moves, the tunic rides up and instead of looking away, Loghain notices a strange mass of badly healed skin almost covering her left kneecap. It has a fascinating shape; he wonders, despite himself, about its history. Lifting her head, Elissa catches him looking at it before he has found something else to fasten his gaze upon. He feels oddly exposed, half expecting her to give him a scowl, but instead she just looks back at him, levelly.

"I was burnt, by a dragon." Her fingers trace the uneven corners of the scar. "I told you about the Cult of Andraste, did I not? Those madmen who guarded the temple with the Ashes. They kept dragons. We didn't become friends with them, as you may have guessed."

"And you killed their dragons?"

"Dragon," she corrects him. "The one they thought was Andraste. We didn't run into any others, just a bunch of recently hatched dragonlings. Zevran had managed to lead us around the dragon's lair unnoticed, even, but then we figured a dragon trained to obey madmen might not be wise to spare. So I decided we would fight it."

Of _course_ she did; of course she fought a dragon. Loghain feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a wry smile.

"How many of you did it take to slay it?" he asks, vividly remembering the Archdemon and the hordes of dwarves and templars they had lost, merely _weakening_ it.

She glances at him, revealing a certain pride in her composure as she replies. "Four. Zevran and Alistair and I took turns with the close combat while Morrigan cast spells."

"Impressive."

"Yes." She makes another effort to cover the greater part of her legs as she leans back on her hands. "I am impressive."

Loghain snorts at her self-assured attitude but he must admit that he _likes_ it; it makes it considerably easier to be her general. There is still a trace in him, of experience and memory of those first years serving under Maric - clumsy and unpractised at taking command over anything, almost touching in his lack of confidence - when Loghain had felt like an older brother rather than the war strategist he was supposed to be. He is grateful this second attempt at serving someone is so different.

"Where exactly is the keep situated?" he asks, making an effort to reach for the collection of maps.

"Oh, I forgot." Elissa scoots on the bed, moving closer to the other side and gesturing for him to sit next to her. Unfolding the map of northern Ferelden, she begins running a finger across the lines marking the roads, travelling from Denerim and further north, until she stops at a spot where she has drawn a large cross. The terrain appears varied, somewhat bothersome but if they don't carry too much they should be fine. "There it is, up the mountains."

Loghain leans over the map, trying to count the number of days they will need to travel between Gwaren and the Warden base; he wants to ride, but there is always the issue of darkspawn and horses to take into account.

"We should ride," Elissa says, as if reaching inside his thoughts. She smooths out a wrinkle on the map, tapping her finger against a thin line showing a path he once travelled with Maric, when they were trying to get to Denerim unnoticed. "Are these old roads still passable, you think?"

"I hope so," he gives the piece of parchment a long look, as though his willpower alone could transform its lines and marks.

They are debating the best route for the mountain part of the journey – disagreeing, both trying to convince the other of the merits of their opinion – when the door opens and a servant girl slips in, all but ready to wake the Commander when she freezes in her step, gasping.

" _Oh_." She clasps a hand over her mouth.

"Do come in," Elissa replies in a neutral tone.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Commander," the girl curtseys, her cheeks flushing scarlet. "Forgive me for intruding, I apologise for-"

"There's no _need_ for that," Elissa cuts in with a sigh, rolling up the map and looking at the maid. "This is scarcely a compromising situation, as I'm sure you can see."

Loghain frowns, turning to the girl who looks absolutely frightened out of her wits at the sight of him. He shakes his head and gets to his feet.

"Of course, Commander. Forgive me," the maid says, breathless.

"Just continue with your duties," Elissa rounds up, sounding benevolent like an old matriarch who is speaking to small, misbehaving children. But the servant certainly doesn't seem to mind; she hurries out again, head bowed.

Elissa groans.

"I am _not_ having servants in Vigil's Keep," she complains, climbing out of bed as the girl scurries out of the room.

"Say that again when you have cooked your own supper for the first time." Loghain has a vague recollection of the commander trying to assist the Orlesian bard with a soup once, without much success. Knowing her better now, he gathers she will likely need detailed instructions for chopping onions.

"Well, _you_ can cook, can't you?"

"I am most certainly not going- " he begins, interrupting himself harshly at the realisation that she's giggling at him behind his back. For a second he feels irritated at the laugh at his expense, then he shakes his head, admitting reluctantly that he did swallow that bait too easily.

"I couldn't resist." Elissa flashes a smile. "Sorry. Anyway. Now I'm going to turn you out before they return with the washbasins."

Loghain nods, gathering his vellums and letters and is one step away from standing in the corridor when she calls out his name. In the corner of his eye he notices the servants hurrying along, slipping into the storage room and back out again, returning with armfuls of clothes and basins.

"Oh, Loghain?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Thanks for letting me know immediately."

He is about to say _of_ _course_ , but she would know that it was not a certainty at all; she is definitely observant and nosy enough for that insight into him.

"Yes," he says instead, nodding, and it's not even a response but it is the only one he is going to give and he assume she knows this, too, like she knows everything else.

Without further ado, he closes the door behind him.

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The same afternoon, his daughter receives him in the large drawing room she uses for her own private audiences.

It's a handsomely decorated room by now, certainly more gaudy than when Loghain last saw it - and for a brief moment he wonders about the new King's priorities, before reminding himself that he is detached from this awful place now, his body is a separate entity, his blood no longer running through this house.

The relief hits him like a blow, every time.

"Warden," Anora says, softly. It has been a long time since they spoke.

He has missed her, he realises now.

"Your Majesty," Loghain greets her, bending his knee. There are chamberlains and ladies-in-waiting - and a marshal who Loghain is convinced was around even when Maric sat on the throne - surrounding them. Loghain undoubtedly understands the need for this display; it is not yet a year since he was going to hang for high treason. He is surprised he was summoned at all. But given the title they have granted Elissa, he figures this, too, is a step towards involving the Order in the everyday dealings of the governing of Ferelden. Anora never did accept his fall from grace.

She looks calm and relaxed despite the formal scene. Last time he saw her the shadows were darker, greyer, kept firmly hidden beneath her composure, of course; they were always there, however, visible to someone who has seen her face in so many variations over the years. Rising again, Loghain catches himself wondering if the bastard son is treating her better than Cailan did, then he pushes those thoughts aside since they, as always, endanger his defences.

"I have read your proposal," Anora says, folding her hands in her lap. "I assumed it was your idea?"

"It was." Loghain nods. "And what is your verdict, Your Majesty?"

"I will grant you some land for this," she states, nodding back at him. "The Grey Wardens have served Ferelden and its monarchs remarkably well. This is a small price to pay."

Loghain observes her, waiting for her to go on.

"There is a freehold just outside Gwaren."

"The one near the Brecilian Passage?" he asks, the image of it surfacing in his head – he has ridden past that small village more times than he cares to think about.

"That is the one, yes." Anora reaches for a vellum on the table to her right, glances over it quickly and hands it over to Loghain. "It is now property of the Grey Wardens. My husband will also grant you the gold necessary to restore and expand the farm as you see fit."

Considering they are currently dependant on Orlesian money – _Warden_ money, Elissa corrects him in his head, but he ignores her for the time being – this is at least some resemblance of improvement. Even if they are being bought, made vulnerable through another version of dependence.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Anora looks at him, smiling behind the royal appearance. "Of course, Warden."

"The Commander will be pleased," Loghain tucks the vellum into the inside pocket of his cloak.

The marshal gives him a badly concealed and very _impatient_ scowl, suggesting the Queen has other appointments before the day is over and that he is somehow blaming Loghain for outstaying his welcome, if he ever had any.

"I shall send a few soldiers there immediately to prepare for your arrival." It's not a question and he wouldn't be able to answer it if it had been, because their delay will be due to the fact that they are going to hunt a lunatic witch in the dark, or at least half-blindly and based on no more than scraps of knowledge.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he says instead, for the second time in this short audience, and prepares to take his leave.

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.

Despite the cloak and his hurried pace, the drizzle manages to dampen his shoulders and hair on the way back to the teyrn's estate, a smell of wet dog surrounding him as he steps into the entrance hall. It doesn't get better as Dog appears, excited to see him and equally damp from being outside in the garden.

Loghain rubs the dog's neck, while struggling out of the cloak. He saves the vellum from being accidentally snatched away by the servants who instantly begin to swarm him, taking the discarded clothing.

"Ser Cauthrien was looking for you, General," one of the maids says, folding his cloak over her arm. It's not the girl who found him in Elissa's bedchamber this morning; this one doesn't look some someone who would have blushed quite that intensely. "She is in the drawing room upstairs."

"Very well." He nods, gesturing for Dog to follow him, which he does with a happy bark.

Cauthrien is indeed waiting for him in the drawing room, by the fireplace; she is wearing a blank expression, as though she has terrible news. She most likely has not, he realises, but she finds his company wearing, requiring preparation. It's an expression that she cultivated the months before Ostagar – through gritted teeth and reluctant obedience and those _looks_ she gave him, at times even worse than Anora's overbearing gaze - and refined during Loghain's year as a regent.

"Cauthrien," he nods, taking a seat by the fire as well, grateful for the warmth.

"You are wet." She doesn't move in her chair, but she crosses her legs and looks at him, then at Dog who curls up over Loghain's feet. "And the mabari smells."

Dog protests tiredly and only once, before settling. He must have been outside hunting other animals since Loghain left for the Palace - Elissa has spent the day with the Wardens, scouting along the city gates for darkspawn and possible undiscovered entrances to the Deep Roads from which the creatures can rise.

"It is raining." Loghain raises an eyebrow. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." Cauthrien looks down, reaching into the sleeve of her tunic to grab hold of a scroll – he has seen a lot of those today, he observes, wishing for nothing else but a hot bath and a sizeable meal – that she then spends another moment fidgeting with. He is unaccustomed to see her doubt herself; Loghain wonders if anything has occurred.

"Here," she says, suddenly, before he has time to ask. "This is the name of a contact in Val Royeuax. Elyon. A former chevalier."

"A _chevalier_?"

"He's neutral enough." Cauthrien has regained her usual demeanour now, watching him with her arms folded across her chest. "We have an accord of sorts. He will deliver information in exchange for gold."

"Of course he will," Loghain sneers, thinking that she has gone mad now, finally snapping under the strain he has put on her. "And that costly information will of course be nothing but Orlesian rubbish."

"He serves the Wardens," she persists. "The Empress stripped him of his lands and titles after a dispute. If anything he would be ready to side against _her_."

"And he would give me information?"

"He would."

"Are you suggesting that he would give me information that differs from the information I receive from the Commander?" He feels a little stab of doubt as the sentence is spoken.

"It is not my place to judge that."

Loghain rubs his forehead, grimacing into his hand.

"Do I have any _reason_ to doubt her?"

Cauthrien hesitates for a brief moment, giving him a pointed glance. "Mere trust is a weak foundation for a nation."

He frowns at his own pompous words being used by her, almost in mockery, but then he catches himself before he says something about it.

"I merely figured you would want a source," she says.

"Why?" Loghain asks, the question breaking through the layers of their conversation, the heavy collection of thoughts in his head. He wonders why she is giving him this information, why she is offering it _now_ , what she truly thinks of the Commander and he wonders, more urgently than he would like to acknowledge, why and _if_ he would need this.

She snorts. "Why not?"

" _Cauthrien_." He hears his own voice cut through the room like the edge of a sword, harsh and merciless. "What are you not telling me?"

Something passes, swooping through the silence and slices it open in fractions and pieces. Loghain leans forward in his seat, feeling unsettled and anything but grateful for this possible source of information. Barring a few messengers here and there, he truly has nothing left from his old circle of contacts, nor has he considered a new one, given how measured his time is and how rarely the Wardens will find any use for the sort of information his former sources would provide him with.

"The Order is unstable," she says eventually, uncertain all of a sudden. "I honestly believe the Commander is loyal to you. And to Ferelden. It is my genuine opinion, for what it's worth. But the Warden business in Orlais... loyalties were bought and sold all the time. The Commander is inexperienced. She's _young_."

Not _that_ young, he objects in his head, but Cauthrien catches his gaze and he falls silent before even beginning to speak.

She holds out the vellum for him to either take or dismiss and Loghain draws a bracing breath, before tearing if from her hand, shaking his head at the same time.

"She has so many assets," Cauthrien says, as she's rising to her feet. The look she is giving him now cannot hide the concern stirring beneath her words. "I want you to have one, too."

He ought to thank her, he supposes; before he can, however, she is already gone.

Left alone by the fire, Loghain mulls over the offer, skimming the concise notes Cauthrien has written for him. There's a dull sensation somewhere along the brink of his mind, a sensation of having betrayed a trust although he cannot _justify_ this to himself in any sensible manner so he decides to ignore it, grinding his teeth.

And it is a good thing he knows better, that he acknowledges the absolutely ridiculous notion, because otherwise he could _swear_ that Dog is giving him a disappointed look.


	18. Time will turn us into statues

The sudden attack on the gates a few days later engages the whole city.

Elissa wakes up to the sounds of it, of a scrambling, frantic mass of people getting ready, all of them only too familiar with the situation and drawing their weapons on cue. Distant at first – cries and shouts, commands being roared and metal clashing against stone – the noise draws nearer until she realises that something is actually _happening_ , just outside her window.

It mirrors many scenes that easily surface in her mind as she jolts out of bed, hissing curses and tripping over her own feet before she suddenly finds herself face to face with a group of servants, carrying weapons and armour.

"Commander," one of the maids breathes, holding out a pair of trousers and Elissa's favourite threadbare tunic to wear under the heavy plate. "There are darkspawn at the city gates."

"Are there soldiers enough to hold them off?"

"W-we... don't know, Commander," another maid adds, looking miserable under the weight of Elissa's breastplate.

"Where are the others?"

"Let me go and see, Commander."

Elissa pulls on the clothes, fumbles with the lacing momentarily; as she is about to get ready to put on the pieces of armour, the knock on the door interrupts her rhythm.

"Elissa!"

"Fergus, I could use a hand!" she yells back, trying not to tackle the short girl who is doing her best to hold up the mail skirt for Elissa to step into while also carrying the vambraces.

"As long as you have clothes on-"

"Andraste's _arse_ , just come in!"

The door swings open and Fergus appears, fully battle-clad with the Highever shield and his longsword on his back and a helmet in one hand. He looks apprehensive and excited, at the same time, raising an eyebrow at the sight of her.

"How did you manage to sleep through that rattle? Loghain and Cauthrien are already on their way – I thought you were with them."

"I'm awake now, aren't I?" Elissa retorts, suddenly a bit self-conscious. It's her job to be alert, after all. She used to leap out of bed at the slightest sound back when they were travelling during the Blight, her mind so set on danger and vigilance that it never truly rested. "Help me buckle this on."

Fergus puts on his helmet to free both his hands, then he expertly assists her in the odd dance of covering a body entirely in metal, all the steps and turns required. Buckling the last piece of armour, he nods at her.

"Ready," he says from within his helmet. His voice sounds hollow.

She nods back and grabs her swords.

With Fergus at her side, they find their way out among the throng of panicked people on the street outside the courtyard, half expecting to see darkspawn there, but it's just people being terrified. People barricading the doors to their houses or abandoning them, remembering how they all burned last time, how very fragile wood is. They remember too much.

This is one of the most heartbreaking truths of war: it doesn't necessarily harden you, or make you callous. War splits you, breaks you apart and creeps into the cracks between; the body-memory of flight, of destruction, of being on the brink of death wherever you turn. It can make you stronger but it can also make you perpetually weakened, constantly fighting the fear.

It should be _done_ with, she thinks, looking at the people they pass. Their faces are masks of grey exhaustion. The battles. The darkspawn. It should be over now. Was that not what she had bargained for?

"Do you know where they came from?" Elissa shouts at her brother across the crowded town square where priests have taken the merchants' places, their chants filling the air. Fergus' knights behind them and weapons drawn, they are practically _heaving_ themselves out, trying to navigate the tightly populated areas through sheer force.

" _Anywhere_?" Fergus shouts back. "Anywhere in the north, at least."

The truth in that makes her groan.

As they reach the city gates, they are greeted by smoke and fire, the distinct sound of something burning – a small shed, she notices when they get closer – and the sparkling energy that only magic can cause. Elissa rushes forward, spotting Cauthrien's helmet in the chaos and aims at it. She reaches her as the emissary she was fighting crumbles with a hiss, taking a last shot at them with a poorly constructed spell that shatters and vaporises without doing harm.

"Shrieks!" Hedin states, fighting one right in front of Loghain, who is plunging his sword through a hurlock. "A horde of them!"

Elissa stumbles into the battle, receiving a slash across her chest from a poisoned dagger – ruining a perfectly fine piece of smithery but not actually hurting her – and lashing out against the attacking creature with both swords. Beside her she sees Fergus and Hedin handle the oncoming group of enemies together with nearly all of the knights. And then the flow of darkspawn comes to an abrupt halt, the stream apparently running dry.

"So," Elissa asks, hands on her knees as she bends forward to catch her breath, finally. "Tell me what happened."

It's been long – too long, much too long – since she fought. She can feel the battle, the iron-wrought core of how to do it, how to _breathe_ it, running out of her. It seems as difficult to get hold of as it is to overlook the battlefield through the grey smoke around them.

"Darkspawn," Hedin says, rather needlessly. "They have been attacking this side of the city gates for a few hours, but not made any progress."

"What about other places? Have they tried to breach through the Alienage?"

"We sent a few knights there," Cauthrien interjects.

"And?" Elissa feels a little stab of irritation at the blatant ignorance of a weak spot in the city's defences.

"We have been preoccupied here." Loghain's voice is dry, but his eyes meet her own and she sees an understanding there – he will not protest if she divides the forces here and send a large party to the other part of town. He will, in fact, encourage it.

"Any losses?"

"Four men," Loghain replies, quickly. "A few others are injured."

"Are there any _unusual_ circumstances?" she ask, aware that the question is suspicious, strange to toss out in the open, but she is feeling too stressed to think of a less conspicuous way of phrasing it.

Thankfully nobody seems to pay much attention to her choice of words and as Loghain shakes his head Elissa straightens up again, calming, her breaths coming slower now.

"You there, what's your name?" Elissa points her sword at a tall man in front of a whole group of knights who seem to look to him for some kind of guidance.

"Ser Gilbert, Commander." The man bows.

Elissa nods. "Ser Gilbert, take as many men as you need and run to the Alienage and make absolutely certain it is secured. I want guards there permanently until we know for certain how much of threat these darkspawn are."

"Understood."

She shakes off the feeling of frustration this field gives her, walking around to get an impression of it to connect with the dreary ones she made while they were running towards it. It's less horrible in reality. The number of deaths is reasonable, she tells herself, and the damage is limited to this area, as far as they know. It could be worse. Rounding a pile of darkspawn bodies she sees a fallen ogre and two of the dead knights, in a large puddle of blood beside it. The new Wardens are forming a small, fairly pitiful line in the outskirts of the battlefield – unscathed, at least. Always something, she supposes.

Elissa sighs, brushing a strand of hair out of her face and stops short; she can _feel_ something is wrong with this very spot, something grazing the outskirts of her knowledge and leaving dark whispers in her blood. It feels like being near those darkspawn in Highever.

" _Commander_ ," Loghain calls, rather sharply.

She turns around, about to ask what he wants but catches herself; there is that _tone_ , she knows that tone. It's over thirty years of experience calling out to her, pushing her right back in place when she seems to have momentarily misplaced herself.

Elissa squares her shoulders, looks up and takes a deep breath.

"I believe we have a few things to report to the King," she says, noticing that Fergus has offered Cauthrien a piece of cloth to wipe her face and that Cauthrien holds it against a wound on her forehead. "Loghain, I want you with me. Hedin, of course. Cauthrien, Fergus, you two as well. The rest of you," she looks at the Wardens, "remain here, guard the gates and report back to us."

"Yes, Commander," Adrianna nods her understanding of the situation.

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Elissa _truly_ does not like the inside of the Palace.

It's a pompous place full of gold and treasures and of strange air that falls into her lungs like reminders of all the previous times she has been here. Those have not been particularly happy times, leaving no joyous memories in her body.

It seems petty to blame a building, of course, but she isn't a very generous woman. And – she corrects herself, biting down on a sour comment forming inside her mouth – it isn't a mere building. It's a constricting, overwhelming _mass_ of a building that seems to breathe around them, and they are standing in it, awaiting its next move.

Elissa folds her arms awkwardly across her chest, which is an uncomfortable thing to do in full armour – both Fergus and Cauthrien have removed their gauntlets and she is pondering if she should do the same thing - when the chamberlain she remembers from the last time she was here arrives, gesturing for them to move inside the throne room.

She walks in front of their little group, leading them through the opened doors inside, until they stand at an appropriate distance from the rulers of the nation, rulers who are looking remarkably _alike_ in their gilded seats. They both appear to be carved out of a block of the finest marble, shaped and sculpted to resemble the perfect monarchs in a fairy tale kingdom. Elissa swallows a lump of something acrid-tasting and harsh at the back of her tongue, before making the proper formal greeting.

It will never not be strange, bowing before a man who once asked her to show him how to make love to a woman. Which is definitely _not_ the thing to be pondering at the moment, she decides, drawing yet another clear line in her mind that separates then from now, reaffirming it with the memory of last time she met Alistair and he made her the bloody Arlessa of bloody Amaranthine. Suddenly she feels detached enough without even trying, thanking the Maker for small mercies.

Glancing at Loghain who bows beside her, Elissa wonders if he is used to these shifting roles and bending lines. He _would_ be used to serving under his daughter, of course. Not that he seemed awfully submissive during the Blight. Not that _she_ has any idea what went on in all those moments in between what she had been permitted to see. They had lived in a whole different nation for that year, making their truths up as they went, every decision and every step a patch-work of what they managed to put together of the scraps they were given. Afterwards, with Loghain by the campfire and at her back, Elissa realised they had barely known _anything_. They were hunting an Archdemon while the rest of Ferelden tried to survive a war.

"Commander," Alistair says, nodding.

"Your Majesty."

A part of her protests at the title, even now.

"Is the situation in the city under control?" he asks immediately, concerned.

"That seems to be the case, yes." She stands again, her voice becoming fuller and more composed as she straightens up. Alistair meets her gaze. A few nights ago when she had been here and he had surprised her by wanting to see her alone in his office, he had seemed apologetic and grim at the same time, which she had found oddly endearing until she learned the reason. But even then, as she cursed him under her breath and accepted the title he handed her without asking, they had been speaking as former companions, if not friends or lovers. Today he is King of Ferelden and her stomach plummets at the idea because the impression that she has condemned him never _quite_ goes away.

"What happened?"

Elissa offers a brief report of the battle, with Cauthrien filling in the blank spaces and too-long pauses with her own words. When they are done, a silence falls in the room.

Anora is the first to break it. "Tell me, Wardens, can we expect more of these attacks?"

"A Blight is usually followed by a period of waning darkspawn activity, Your Majesty," Hedin says, glancing up at the Queen who wears a polite expression that is impossible to read – but Elissa has no doubt that it has been noted how the elf doesn't answer her question.

"Yes, we know." Alistair, more impatient, leans forward. "But these can't have been here since the Blight, can they? It's almost been a year."

When Hedin inhales, Elissa cuts in, breaking inside the conversation again as though she will lose her bearings in this room unless she ties herself to something tangible and important.

"They haven't been here since the Blight," she confirms. "We think they are fairly recent."

"Recent?" Anora folds her hands in her lap, one thumb rubbing the back of her right hand, absent-mindedly.

"There have been darkspawn rising from the ground for the past year," Elissa elaborates, trying to find ways to speak of this while leaving out a great deal of the Warden business because Alistair is a king now, not a brother. "And they must come from somewhere. We are trying to find out where."

"You mean which ways they use?" Alistair frowns slightly. "Ways from the Deep Roads?"

"Yes."

Elissa wonders if that is what they _are_ doing. Wonders if she even knows. Lately the missions and the duties and the unexpected trials with Morrigan seem to have upset all form of rational logic of her planning; what once was a clear-cut mission - to end the Blight – morphed into several, more blurry ones that in turn transformed entirely into new titles and political wounds not easily mended. To this, they have added a very private agony, that possibly is causing the overall darkspawn problems. If it is, which she has begun to hope, they will find a way to deal with it. If it isn't, then they have two rather alarming, not to mention _separate,_ issues to handle.

And as that thought abates she realises how _very_ tired she is.

"With the Archdemon dead, the hordes should retreat underground. That's what Riordan told us once, right?"

Elissa nods.

"So _why_ aren't they retreating?" There's a slight shift in his voice at this question, something that likely passes unnoticed for everyone else, but Elissa knows it's held-back anger surfacing, irritation at feeling left in the dark, at being uninformed. She feels a surge of empathy.

That doesn't give him an answer though, she thinks, still silent. And the King of Ferelden is looking down at her from his throne, waiting; Elissa tugs at her bottom lip, waiting in turn for a good explanation to find its way back into her head.

"Your Majesty," Loghain says instead, his voice cool. "If I may speak?"

Alistair looks surprised at being addressed by Loghain at all and hesitates, probably pondering what to call him, how to call him _anything_ without seething, before settling for a curt nod.

"Yes?"

"There are a few known passages to the Deep Roads in Ferelden, all of them believed to be long abandoned. We used them during the rebellion."

"Is it possible there are more of those than we are aware of?" Anora asks, forestalling her husband.

"Very likely." Loghain pauses. "Several years ago I sent an expedition to map them. A copy of the map still exists in the Palace, should you want it."

"It's also likely there could have been some sort of passage _made_ , recently," Elissa says, remembering the experience she had in Highever, when the attacking darkspawn had seemed to have a pursuit other than death, had felt different, the taste of them in her blood shifting the preconceived images of them in her head. "We don't know _why_ they are using the passages but we believe they do. And we should seal them, if possible."

"Right." Alistair looks uncomfortable for a fraction of a second. He is likely not consoled at the thought of his own kingdom being so vulnerable, or at least he should not be, she thinks. It's a stitch of anxiety in Elissa's throat.

Alistair and Anora exchange a long look before Alistair turns his attention to the others in the room.

"Then we must find it."

"Well. _Yes_ ," Elissa frowns, and as Fergus pokes her back in a quiet reminder of appropriate behaviour, she adds a stiff: "Your Majesty."

"When I was scouting for darkspawn outside the city mere days ago I could not find anything," Hedin says. "I know a few directions in which we might head, however."

Leaning back in his seat, Alistair moves his gaze from Elissa for a moment as he is scrutinizing the elf. Beside him, Anora clears her throat but Alistair is quicker.

"Can the Wardens lead this expedition?" he asks, looking at Elissa.

"We can." Hedin nods before Elissa has had time to even consider a response.

"Then we would both like to accompany you, Wardens." Anora looks over the room, a half-smile on her lips and a calm gaze that falls over them all. "If this is not a problem for you, Commander?"

Loghain seems to catch himself before he lets slip a protest; he inclines his head an inch and Elissa knows he is grinding his teeth, probably cursing inwardly, before he looks up again, composed as ever.

"Why would you want to accompany us, Your Majesties?" he asks, evenly.

"It is not a strange request, is it?" Anora retorts, pointedly. Her smile grows distant and polite. "With our nation still in danger from the darkspawn threat is it not important that its King and Queen learn more about it?"

Alistair nods, underlining his wife's statement.

"I don't think this will be a time-consuming mission," Elissa points out, uncertain if she wants to encourage this thing or ward it off. Or better yet - just leave this place and go track Morrigan before something worse happens.

"No, there are no great distances I have in mind." Hedin nods.

"We can possibly leave at daybreak and return by nightfall," Loghain agrees, his facial expression an unreadable mask but Elissa can sense his deep-rooted disapproval of this. "It is not far, but it could be dangerous. There is no _need_ for a large party."

There truly isn't. But Elissa knows - and Loghain knows, too, she is certain – that the King and Queen are political beings. And this, for all its necessity and grimness, is a political game. It is a show for the masses, a display of the brave regents travelling with the famous Grey Wardens who ended the Blight itself and drove back the darkspawn underground. Except for all the hordes that still rage in the north. And a marsh witch with a god child. Elissa shakes her head, brushing away the thoughts.

"We shall have enough soldiers at our disposal," Anora says, as though that would be the heart of the matter.

"Wynne will want to come, as well, I imagine." All things considered, Alistair looks inordinately pleased with the whole matter, probably longing for something besides court life by now.

"Very well then," Elissa says, finally resigning.

She is aware Loghain is watching her sideways, but doesn't look back at him.

"So we have reached an understanding," Anora nods, sending Elissa a smile that is both private and genuine and utterly disarming. She has forgotten the Queen has the power to do that, has forgotten, too, her own weak spots.

"We leave the seneschal and the counsellors to take care of the court for tomorrow then," Alistair concludes, summing up the conversation. "I'll make sure we have everything we need."

"Then we see you at daybreak, Your Majesties." Hedin bows, a smile on his lips.

"We will." Alistair smiles, too. "Thank you, Wardens. Thank you, Commander."

Elissa looks at him. He does seem comfortable on his throne - much more comfortable than she would have imagined. And there is, she noticed at the feast and notices now as well, a trail of affinity between the King and Queen of Ferelden: a union, a sense of understanding. She had not expected _that_.

And she leaves the throne room even more confused then before they arrived, the feeling of not having properly woken up the only thing that is definitely clear in her mind.

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.

Outside the Palace, they part ways.

Cauthrien and Fergus volunteer to go to the Alienage to be of aid to the knights, if necessary. Hedin sets out to return to the other Wardens, informing Elissa that he intends to let them take turns in guarding the gates all night, for practice and protection in equal measures.

Elissa and Loghain, after a quick detour to resupply, make for the outer city gates to patrol it as it is a long road framing the city and thus, she deems, a suitable spot for more attacks.

At first, they walk in complete silence. Elissa is mulling over the peculiar development of her morning so far, the path her forenoon has taken and how they will get through tomorrow. Whatever he is thinking about, Loghain does it without as much as a word. Not that this surprises her. Dog strolls in between them, conversing with them about foxes or as they pass something else that catches his interest, but leaving them mostly to their thoughts.

"Why are we doing this?" Loghain asks, finally, as they have left the city noise behind them and the different sounds of the open, spring-clad landscape surround them.

"Patrolling?"

"Making inane trips with the King." He snorts. "His Majesty seems to hope for a glorious day of triumph tomorrow. Perhaps he feels he missed out on the battle last time."

Elissa looks at him. His voice is so thick with sarcasm and repressed irritation that it almost takes her aback at first, the depth of it. She shouldn't be _unused_ to it, but it has been absent for a long time now, replaced by other notes, other ways of speaking, of interacting.

"Do you think so?" she asks, sheathing her swords. So far they haven't run into anything more dangerous than a stray cat.

"Yes, I do."

"I don't."

"Well, there is a surprise." Loghain sighs. They are walking under trees and among bushes of various kinds, all of them in bloom and scenting wonderfully of warmth and spices. These were the roads the troops used to travel when returning with the spoils of war, she recalls from her history tutoring. The fields of glory, where all soon to be crowned kings and queens of the past had been taken, paraded about as they headed for Denerim. She knows there must have been a ceremony of sorts with Maric here, too.

She wants to ask Loghain about it, but decides against it. He wears a frown that seems to run so deep it's part of his bones by now. Fighting the instinct to reach out, place a hand on his arm or casually pat his shoulder or something else truly _inane_ that is not part of their pattern, Elissa merely shakes her head.

"Alistair is not Cailan." She feels an unhealed spot of _hurt_ deep down. Like her own judgement is being questioned, too. "He doesn't do this to _prove_ anything."

Frankly, she isn't fully convinced that this is true. Alistair can be a petulant, insecure child sometimes. But not like Cailan. She is _almost_ certain of that.

Loghain looks unconvinced, walking forcedly along the path, so quickly that even Dog has trouble keeping up with his pace. "We are not puppets. And there is no reason we should not do this alone, as Wardens."

"Alistair isn't exactly an ordinary king. He's a Warden, too."

"Is he?" Loghain crooks an eyebrow, turning to face her.

"Well. You _know_."

She can't stifle a groan. Her head is heavy and her words are clumsy. Perhaps she is not made for this life, after all. She has been apart from battle for so long her body has made this decision for her. Perhaps she would do better as an arlessa, growing fat and complacent, her worries no more profound than how to manipulate the banns and partake in bland political correspondence, occasionally endangering the quiet life by finding a few unsuitable lovers to shake things up a little.

"Are you going to put us under royal control, pray tell?" Loghain's anger seems to have subsided; he sounds more troubled now. A worry that cuts deeper than this simple expedition, that flows beneath them and tugs at something more fundamental between them. She wishes he was furious instead. "If the King is indeed a Warden, still, then perhaps this is only to be expected."

"No," she answers simply and truthfully. It's an answer so simple and truthful in fact, that it seems to put him a little off guard. "I am not."

They proceed in silence for another while, the sun warming their faces but not thawing the irritated chill in the air between them. It has been such a bloody awful day so far, Elissa thinks, feeling like a whiny brat for complaining, given the circumstances. _Still_. She bites down hard on her own pout, deciding she is entirely too old for it.

"Do you trust me, Loghain?"

Her question echoes dully against the previous conversation, causing a little rift in the space between them. Loghain looks as surprised as she feels, for having asked him this.

When he doesn't answer, Elissa gives a sarcastic laugh, leading them onwards. Judging by the sun's position, they have been making great headway and been at it for about an hour or two. Still no darkspawn. It will make tomorrow a lot simpler if they only have one way to go that seems plausible. Loghain continues to be quiet even as they stop for a quick meal. He takes out a large loaf of bread and an equally large chunk of cheese from his pack and puts it all on a flat stone in between them; Elissa contributes a flask of water from her own pack.

Taking a bite of the bread, Elissa glances at Loghain. He looks preoccupied with his food for a while, but she doesn't look away; after some time he meets her gaze. There's a little surge of something in her chest at that, this unfamiliar sulk leaving her unpleasantly ill at ease.

Apparently it falls under her duty to set things right again.

"I have no other purpose than this," she says, reaching for the flask. "The Wardens. _Ferelden_. Trust that, at least."

Loghain sighs.

"I do," he says, voice low and dark, as though he is being forced to admit something against his will. It seems to her that no matter how willingly _she_ offers it, he will always accept her friendship only in bits and pieces and only ever reluctantly.

But something passes between them as he speaks the sentence. Something relents.

Elissa turns her gaze back to the cheese in her hand, softened by the sun as she puts a chunk of it in her mouth. She hands Loghain the flask; as he takes it from her, their hands touch for a moment and she feels the low hum of connection between them, an oddly comforting sound far back in her mind, so tiny she would miss it if she didn't know it was there, didn't search for it. So tiny but somehow so tightly woven into the backdrop of her understanding of this life they lead that she has begun to think of it as _necessary_.

"I do not trust easily," Loghain says, tearing apart a slice of bread. "Nor should you."

"Oh, believe me, I don't."

It's not a lie in the slightest. She has never been quick to trust, not even before she learned the many various reasons for caution and suspicion, along with the reasons for lie and manipulation. It had been one of the traits she had found both endearing and despicable in Alistair – his willingness to open up and the ease with which he had begun to consider her a friend, a close companion. Elissa had wavered, held back, even made fun of him until finally her defences fell down and she let him in. Had it been worth it? She doubts it.

Seasoned by now, she knows better, her true emotions not utterly _bared_ by trust, not so readily exposed or shared. There are nuances of everything.

Loghain puts the flask to his mouth and drinks in deep draughts, then he gives it back to her, exhaling.

"Yet you trust me?" He sounds incredulous, Elissa notices, but with a soft thread of fascination creeping into his voice.

"Yet I trust you." She ventures a brief smile.

When she looks at him, he is almost smiling back.

After having finished their meal, wasting no time on rest, they continue their patrol, reaching the not yet restored stretches of land. Here the landscape looks like a wasteland in parts, made up by overgrown arable land and once magnificent constructions of avenues and unfinished splendour. When the Orlesians ruled, Elissa knows, they had erected statues here, making an avenue of Heroes leading the path into the city. Aldous had taught her all about it: the statues, the people who became the Heroes, the deeds and misdoings.

Not much of it remains now. The Orlesians have been driven out like a poison and new statues have replaced their battered ones, the hated ghosts; these new statues have already had time to become ghosts themselves, Elissa thinks, kneeling down in front of a fallen sculpture. It seems to stare, with dead eyes that pierce through everything.

She can't hide a sneer.

She has seen paintings, has seen the man who inspired it, but never the statue.

It's Loghain. The Hero of River Dane. A stone-trapped version of him, immortal and grey, carrying a sword and a shield and looking up at her with a glum expression in his face. It is larger than life in an almost frightening way and its features carry nothing of the human softness or shifting, growing lines of its living counterpart. Elissa stoops lower, placing a hand on the statue's head and brushes away a few old leaves.

Loghain snorts coldly behind her. "These damned old statues should be rotting below ground."

"I assumed this stood in Gwaren?" Elissa asks without lifting her gaze. The stone-man looks like he would have a cold voice, too, rolling up from ground like thunder.

"They moved it here. After Ostagar."

There's an unpleasant sting of bitterness in the words and it hits an equally unpleasant note within Elissa's memory. A stench of corpses and fire, ashes and blood and being on the run, forever.

"Interesting what people give priority to in a crisis," she mutters so low she doesn't expect – or intend – Loghain to hear it.

"It was hardly _my_ suggestion," he says, rather sharply. His hearing has definitely not suffered from thirty years of being a general. Elissa's father used to say he never got the cries of the battlefield out of his ears, not even as he returned to the quiet of Highever. When she was a child she pictured it like a sea shell, carrying the ocean within its body, singing the songs of war if you put it close enough and listened. Now she knows it's the war that never leaves your body that makes that kind of sound.

"It's very..." her voice trails off; she doesn't find a word that fits.

" _Indeed_."

"You look rather... ferocious." She gets to her feet, supporting herself with her hands on her knees.

"Then you should have seen the sketches they made." Loghain raises an eyebrow as he meets her gaze, the tiniest hint of amusement in the grim tone.

Elissa gives the sculpted stone one last look. It's such an odd thing, being immortalised as a statue. A cold thing to do, freezing your motions and actions, leaving them in that exact, measured position as though that is the way you must remain forever. Your essence captured. She shivers, despite the heat, imagining her own face as carved out from a large block of stone; imagining the cruelty of unchangeable stone.

"That's not you," she says, stupidly.

"No, that is a statue." Loghain gives her a dry smile but the sound of his voice tells her he understands what she means. That he is possibly even a little thankful for her verdict.

A bit further away is the famous statue of King Maric riding into Denerim on a horse and as they reach it, Loghain shakes his head, scoffing.

"Maric liked this one, for certain."

Elissa can't see why – it's as weirdly sized and as _distorted_ as the one of Loghain, nothing but another heroic pose trapped in time and a face perpetually stuck in a grimace – and she has to lean over the statue to observe it more closely. It has fallen or been knocked over as well, the horse's tail and the tip of Maric's sword are both missing, leaving two uneven edges to the silhouette's smooth lines.

"Because he always wanted to look like a Fade demon?" she asks, frowning at this version of the King she cannot recall from any gathering in her youth. Maric was handsome like Alistair is handsome - all clear, simple lines. This is not the statue of that man.

Loghain gives a short laugh. "No, because he is riding. Maric was the worst rider I had ever met back when he started his rebellion. He could barely stay in the saddle without falling off."

"You taught him?"

"He taught himself," Loghain says. "It was only a matter of time, given how many horses we had. Maric always strived to learn."

She wonders if he knows how his face changes when he speaks of Maric. Almost invisibly, it's still a change to someone like Loghain and it's very sympathetic. Elissa smiles at him.

"There were no statues of Rowan?"

"Not of her alone. They made one of Maric and Rowan, as you know."

Elissa nods. She does. It's in the Palace courtyard, surrounded by an abundance of flowers and bushes. A beautiful spot for Ferelden's most treasured monarchs, long after their earthly bodies are gone.

"And one of you," she adds.

His expression is grim again, unamused. "Yes."

Elissa knows very little of Queen Rowan. _Everyone_ knows very little of Queen Rowan. She was an imposing presence and a strong regent, no doubt about it, but where everyone could tell a few tall tales of the King and his adventures, nobody had anything out of the ordinary to say of his Queen.

This, she knows, is not common.

The nobility gossips. It is, some would argue, one of their most important duties.

There are gossip mongers and malicious rumours that still swirl up in her mind from time to time; words and phrases, names and faces. People said so many things, of course, most of it sheer rubbish. But growing up in a teyrn's home, she overheard a lot. Banns, Elissa knows, love to speak ill of their betters when they think nobody can hear them.

Even so there was, remarkably, no gossip about Rowan.

About Loghain, however, there was a never never-ceasing flow of speculation, stories and rumours, malicious and otherwise. He was ever the mystery, the commoner made teyrn. She can see now in retrospect the stir he caused among the nobles, the way his mere existence both upset and confirmed their positions and obligations. There was always an air of danger to him, manifested in the way he was being spoken of. Teyrn Mac Tir was a man of strong passions and even stronger contradictions: he was disrespectful and servile, aggressive and polite, ambitious and willing to follow orders all at once and because he was not easily sorted out, Elissa knows now, he was not someone you could ever _ignore_.

So they talked about him, behind his back.

They wondered why he was not in Gwaren. They talked about his wife. Who they knew next to nothing about, and therefore could attach to any intriguing piece of rumour they found. They talked about Anora, and the possibility of her not being his. They speculated and insinuated and suggested and Elissa tries to follow the trail of all those words back in her mind now, to find a source, give them a context. Perhaps they had none. None other than Loghain, in all his strangeness.

They said Maric was the only man the sour teyrn would ever bend over for, she remembers when she looks far back in her recollection. Kneeling before his precious king, she had heard drunk men exclaim, once or twice, raising guffaws from other drunk nobles. Back then she had no idea what they were alluding to, of course, and now that she understands it, her cheeks flush just thinking about it. So she does not. She definitely does _not_.

Averting her eyes from the statue and from Loghain, she clears her throat and does not think of _that_.

"Rowan must have been an amazing woman," Elissa says instead, feeling observed. As though Loghain would be able to read her mind. "My parents always said it was such a great loss she died so young."

"It was," Loghain says, his voice quiet. "She was born to be Queen."

Elissa grew up being jealous of Rowan, but she doesn't say _that_. That particular confession seems redundant. Queen Rowan – or rather the image of her, the memory her ghost left behind - was kind and well-loved and the strongest sword fighter in all of Ferelden; she was beautiful and full of grace and all those other things a clumsy, average-looking little girl in Highever dreamed of being. She wonders, as a grown woman and the Hero of Ferelden, how many of those things that were pure make-believe.

"Maric and Rowan were promised to each other since they were children, right?"

"They were."

Loghain still looks at the statue, as though he's trying to figure something out.

Watching him doing that, there is that suspicion again, lurking in the corners of Elissa's mind, a gathering of details making up something finally resembling a full picture. A phrase her mother taught her once, about arranged marriages. The way Loghain had spoken to her many months ago, about putting Alistair on the throne. The expression on his face now, as he is unaware that she is looking at him, its faraway look of having lost something so long ago it has become almost unreal to him. A fairy tale.

And the _silence_ surrounding the Queen. As though they were all helping her forget what they didn't even know existed in the first place. There is a bitter sense of logic to it.

Suddenly she _knows_ how it happened. It unfolds in her head, overlaying every other possible scenario. Loghain confirms it without speaking, because she knows he has learned how her mind works by now, its paths and markings at least somewhat familiar to him.

"I used to want to be her," she says, making her voice very soft. "She was so brave and she had so much. Well. At least it _seemed_ that way. But the more I learn about her, I think she had to give up a lot, too."

Loghain is looking at her now, his expression caught between a sneer and a disbelieving frown.

"You think so, do you?" he asks in a wry tone.

"I do," she replies, truthfully.

He doesn't respond to that. When he doubts something, Elissa knows - because he is Loghain and he rarely trusts _anything -_ he gets a particular line on his forehead; it's a sharp, angry little wrinkle that seems to curve around his thoughts and she is sometimes struck by the urge to place a gentle finger there and smooth it out. She never does, of course, because he is _Loghain_ and would probably bite her head off. But she has come to like that wrinkle; it reminds her of the man behind the inscrutable mask.

"Shall we proceed?" Loghain gives her a long look that tells her she must have been staring at him for a while.

"Oh." Elissa nods, adjusting her swords and making certain Dog is within sight. "Yes. We should."

As they continue and she walks by his side, throwing glances at him from time to time, she thinks of the stone faces and of flesh and blood and when Loghain meets her gaze, she knows she is a little bit closer to him now than she was before.

* * *


	19. The world beneath

They set off before the sun is up the following morning, their quietly remarkable little expedition consisting of nearly _all_ of the most important people in Ferelden.

Elissa is feeling heavy-hearted, fretting, wondering if she should have voiced more protests against this, if she should have been less resilient in the face of the royal games, demanded more explanation. They have quickly become _her_ responsibility now, all these people.

Not that this is unusual.

It had been strange and immensely familiar at the same time, gearing up together outside the Palace. They were even receiving protective wards from Wynne who had offered Elissa a big hug and nearly tore up some deeply buried grief. Even if she doesn't know exactly _what_ it is she grieves, she still feels the tears threatening to well up at the mere thought. Part of it is Wynne herself, though, and Elissa's happiness to see _her_ again. Stubborn, well-meaning, _brilliant_ Wynne on her high horse, always offering a remark or a piece of advice; undesired as it sometimes may be, other times her words hit the right spot, immediately within the heart of the issue. In Elissa's head Wynne resembles a gnarled old tree, comforting and harsh at the same time.

Wynne walks right next to Cauthrien, eyeing her thoroughly. Elissa wonders what she makes of the knight, what the verdict will be. She can't imagine Cauthrien would be easily forgiven for carrying out Loghain's orders at Ostagar and afterwards, but sometimes the mage has surprised her in the past. Her moral standards are high – too high for Wynne herself, Elissa half-suspects – and she does not forgive easily, but there is something _worthy_ in her, something that ignites others.

Elissa tries not to think about what her former companion would make of the last, frantic decisions in Redcliffe because she honestly does not want to _know_.

Glancing over at Hedin and Loghain who are flanking her, she wonders if they feel the same blankness as far as darkspawn activity goes. Her head is clear, her body only responds to the nearness of other Wardens and there is no throbbing beat or persistent call in her blood.

"They're not above ground here," Hedin concludes, as though responding to her thoughts. "I can barely sense them."

"But you _can_ sense them?" Loghain asks. He walks with his helmet in one hand and the old map of the charted passages tucked away inside his breastplate, Elissa knows, because she has been watching him.

"Vaguely."

Elissa nods, somewhat distracted by a loud noise in the compact line behind them, where Alistair and Anora ride in the midst of a metal-cloud of soldiers sworn to protect them with their lives. It's odd. In her mind, even after everything, Alistair is still the _protector,_ her second.

This constellation of people is nothing if not very strange.

They make good headway and reach the very outskirts of the city quickly, continuing along a road that eventually leads to the coast through a difficult and not often used passage that Loghain has told her about. Elissa remembers it because she hoped, as he accounted for the dangers he and Maric had met there, that they were never going to use it.

"We should pay attention to any mound of stones, secluded areas and crossings of the road," Hedin announces from ahead.

He has begun to look less sickly over the past few days. As though the darkspawn energy is drawing him back in, fortifying his body for the final battle. It stings in her as these thoughts surface, small prickles of badly defined grief over a man she barely knows – but it's not just over _him,_ Elissathinks, glumly. They will all share this fate.

"So just _everything_ then?" Alistair remarks, in a too-loud whisper slipping out of the untouchable knight-swarm, blending with a low chuckle from Anora. So much for Anora's despairing verdict of her husband's hopeless sense of humour, Elissa thinks, with an inward sigh.

Well, at least _some_ of them are enjoying the expedition.

Elissa quickens her pace to catch up with Loghain again, who is now several steps ahead of the other Wardens, up front. He gives her a glance and a nod; so far today they have barely said a word to each other. Once they returned last night they had been starved and dirty from battle and spring heat so after a meal they had retreated to baths and beds. It remains in her today, the fine-grained details of what they spoke of, what she had deducted from the scraps of history and Loghain's lack of denial.

She can't quite believe it, still. When she tries to picture it, the story she has created for them, her mind seem to hesitate, sending only a flurry of impressions back to her, leaving her undone and somewhat _disturbed_.

Queen Rowan had seemed so regal, so full of poise and Elissa is not convinced Loghain, even a young Loghain, is a man made for torrid affairs. The Queen and the farmer's son. It sounds more like the plot of one of those books she read when nobody saw her, back in Highever, not like something her general would be involved in. She can believe, of course, that Loghain is the sort of man you don't ever forget. He is forceful, dedicated and full of surprises – and there is that streak of unexpected warmth in him, too, swirling around his less guarded gestures and words, making them all the more powerful because it's _Loghain_ and he isn't friendly or gentle or anything else like _that_.

He is this dogged man walking beside her, nodding towards a small opening in the thickening forest.

"According to the map, there's a cave in here somewhere," he says.

"A passage?"

"Not that I am aware of, no." He holds up a cluster of pendent tree branches so he can pass under it and when he doesn't let it down again, Elissa realises he is waiting for her to follow.

"Thanks," she says, still half-way inside her wildly inappropriate and misplaced thoughts, which certainly doesn't improve _anything_. She glances over her shoulder to see if the others are coming along. They are, a bit further back, so she drops the branches and proceeds to investigate what clearly _is_ a cave, just a few metres inside this glen. It's half buried in bushes and small, blossoming trees but there is a coldness surrounding it as they approach it, a sharp sound in her head that Loghain hears, as well, she knows because of the way he raises an eyebrow as he uncovers the cave entrance with his sword, cutting away a mass of ferns and weeds.

"Well, it looks like the map was right," Elissa says, turning around to shout to the others. "Over here!"

Loghain easily removes a small collection of stones gathered in front of the small inlet that, by the look of things, leads inside the underground.

The air outside the entrance is murky, as though whatever is inside is reaching out. If she tilts her head, Elissa sees the spiders jet up into the sticky clouds of web hanging over their heads. A shiver trickles down her spine despite the heat.

She is _not_ fond of spiders.

It's a well-kept secret, a little flutter of worry at the pit of her stomach, and she flinches slightly at the idea of having to go in there. Not that she hasn't fought spiders the size of a fully grown man before, but it has been a long time now and she has appreciated this break from battling her own instincts to curl up and scream.

"Caves or spiders?" Loghain asks dryly. Perhaps it's no longer the world's _best_ kept secret after all, she have to admit.

Sighing, she looks at him, smoothing out her facial expression. "Spiders."

He looks like he is about to say something else, when the rest of the party catches up with them, gathering around the cave where Elissa and Loghain have stopped. There's a rising hum as the rest take in the sight.

"We are not going in there," the Queen says firmly and it's not a question or even a statement, it's a royal _decree_ , underlined by her posture as she finds a spot as far away from the cave as the small glen allows her.

"Well," Alistair says, hands already reaching for his weapons and an almost palpable longing in his face. "They might come out and play, of course. I don't know any good tricks to lure them out, though. Anyone else?"

"We are not going to lure anything _out_ ," Elissa clarifies, in the event of companions unfamiliar with this particular sense of humour.

"Let us hope not." Anora, definitely not amused, lets one hand rest at the hilt of her sword. It's an unusual sword, Elissa can't help but notice; it shimmers with gold and enchantments and the hilt is dotted with red gems. A spectacular, impractical sword not meant for fighting but for decoration – why anyone would want _that_ , she can't even being to wrap her mind around.

"Your Majesties. Commander." Hedin steps forward. "I suggest the Wardens go in alone. We place a few knights behind us, to hear our call for assistance, should it be necessary."

Without even looking at either Alistair or Anora, Elissa has nodded her consent to the plan. She can see that Loghain agrees too, unsheathing his sword in preparation for going inside.

Elissa returns to the saddlebags to gather supplies; kneeling down she tucks poultices and potions into her pouch, bringing a small vial of poison too, hoping she can remember how Zevran taught her to use it as a last-resort treatment for her blades.

"Do I still count as a Warden?" Alistair is suddenly standing before her as she rises and turns around. There's an hesitant expression in face and his voice is low, as though he is keeping it down while obtaining her consent. Behind him she can see both Loghain and Anora follow their conversation with great interest. It is not often, but right now Elissa definitely spots the similarities between them, a visible trail running between father and daughter, their faces sealed and only their eyes betraying any emotion, should you look closely enough.

"Look," she begins, rubbing her forehead. "You're the _king_."

"Oh? Is that what I am?" Alistair smiles wryly. "I thought I just had a very large house all of a sudden. And this ill-fitting crown. Cailan must have had a gigantic head, because it just keeps falling down."

She has forgotten that he is even more difficult to talk to than Loghain, sometimes.

"I can't take the King of Ferelden with me down there," she says, attempting a new approach and ignoring his jokes. "If something happens to you-"

"Elissa," Alistair interrupts, stripping himself of all kingly form and manners in a second. As he meets her gaze, he is just Alistair and the air around them is full of echoes of what she once believed were unchanging things. "People are dying. There were darkspawn attacks in Denerim even though you ended the Blight and I'm a Warden. Everyone knows I am. I can't just... I can't just sit there in the Palace and not _do_ anything."

"You can hand out bread and coins to the beggars then," she snaps, before thinking better of it. "Instead of having yourself killed underground."

" _Elissa_."

There is no point, Elissa knows, to remind him of what he has done already, that everyone acts in their own ways with their own means and that kings and queens don't necessarily fight in the Warden ranks. Or that he had left the sodding Order voluntarily to begin with. There is no point, because this is Alistair who fell in love with her when she gave food to a prisoner and sat with a dying soldier in Lothering - out of confusion more than goodness but he didn't believe that when she told him. Good, brave Alistair who may feel betrayedand blame her for being his kingmaker but who will spend every year on that throne fighting for what is right and just. Alistair who is compassionate and kind and sensitive, traits she had no use for in her game of thrones, but that nevertheless pulled her through the worst year of her life.

She suddenly wishes she had told him, at least once.

"Very well," she says instead. "I suppose I can't stop you."

"I do have a lot of knights now, it's true," he agrees, half-smiling and grabbing the weapons as they head back to the others.

Loghain rakes a hand through his hair in a gesture of quiet exasperation and Anora merely shakes her head as Elissa looks in her direction. There is genuine concern in her gaze as it follows Alistair, walking up to the cave. Elissa wishes she could promise her something – _I will return him safely_ – but that would be a lie.

And then they step inside the stone-wrapped darkness, down a flight of broken, crumbling steps into something resembling a room, with several drifts leading in various directions. It must be an old mine, she decides, walking as slowly as possible in order not to fall. Elissa walks behind Hedin, with Loghain and Alistair at her back. Dog, unusually quiet, trots at the very end of their small line at Wynne's side.

Almost on cue, the flood of noise in her head increases, rushing over her thoughts and in between her senses, until she has to look at the others to assure herself she isn't going insane. Hedin nods grimly, his face sweaty and ashen.

"Are you certain you can do this?" she asks, quietly.

"I will not fail you," he retorts and even his voice is no more than a pale shiver. "I cannot fight well, but I can lead you to the darkspawn."

Elissa is about to ask how he will avoid being killed, when – almost on cue – a group of genlocks rush towards them. Pushing Hedin behind her and letting Loghain replace him, Elissa draws both swords and runs to greet them.

It's a simple enough fight between the six of them and the darkspawn go out with a whimper.

They are deep within the mine now. Or _cave -_ she isn't sure what to call it, what this is, beyond a dark space full of possible dangers. There's a distant pull of the calling inside their heads. It comes and goes, strangely and rhythmically, likes waves.

She finds herself between Loghain and Alistair in this large section of the underground, where the stone beneath them is flat and everything flickers before her eyes while they try to adjust to the lack of sunlight. It looks like a tunnel is leading downwards, to their left, but as she moves closer to it, she realises it's merely a small path leading into another cavity in the massive stone. This place is almost consciously built, she thinks. That is not a cheerful prospect.

As they begin to spread out a little, to look in different corners of the large room, Elissa feels the surge again and before she even knows it, they are in the company of hurlocks, shrieks and an emissary who is throwing spells that are still blocked by Wynne's wards, though those are wearing a bit thin now.

"Wynne, take the spell caster!" Elissa cries, ducking for a green, acrid-smelling dagger swooshing through the air. "Dog, go after the shrieks!"

"What about me?" Alistair asks her as she falls silent and it's not until then she realises she hasn't given him an order.

Loghain has already taken on the hurlocks, rallying them around him in a corner, knowing already what she would say. He gives Alistair an unreadable glance in between attacks, as though he can't decide if he wants help or wishes the king of Ferelden would run back up into the sunlight again.

Alistair, with the heart of a storybook knight and always _there_ , defending; Loghain, level-headed and calculating, counting on her to save her own skin. What a sodding _pair_ she has brought with her.

Elissa is unused to commanding them both at the same time, she realises, momentarily confused. To be honest, she doesn't exactly _command_ Loghain a great deal to begin with, since he is an excellent strategist and often makes better choices on his own than anything she could have predicted. With Alistair it used to be different; he had wanted directions and orders and she had wanted a trustworthy templar at her back, with a shield bash so powerful it often left her with a lot of space and liberty to conduct the rest of the fight. They had been a smooth, well-rehearsed duo after a year of fighting together.

It's safe to say that they aren't, not any more.

"Hurlocks," she shouts back, slamming her sword down hard on a genlock's head.

Fighting has rarely been this _confusing_ and only half of her troubles results of the darkness.

But battle is in their bodies, however rusty and mismatched and unused to each other these bodies may be, and the fighting ends, eventually.

"Loghain, look for remaining darkspawn in the tunnels." Elissa straightens up, crossing the stone floor to look at the mess they have made. The commands flow better now, with more ease.

"Yes."

"Alistair, check with the knights if they are all right back there."

He nods, and slips out in one of the tunnels again.

Wynne and Elissa, aided by Hedin, spend a long while scouting the place for anything interesting. It is difficult when the only light is coming from Wynne's spheres that dance above them, giving a sufficient but still rather dim glow. They can quickly conclude that whatever this is – mine or cave or darkspawn creation – they are standing in its heart. There are no paths leading further inside or further down.

Loghain returns first, his sword glistening with fresh blood. "I found a few more."

"The last of them?" Elissa digs her toe into a pile of sackcloth and what appears to be clothes. A stench of rotten flesh rises, filling her nostrils and tickles the back of her throat with a nauseating force. She holds her breath as she lowers herself to the ground to examine the mess.

"Yes, it seems we have emptied the place."

Loghain kneels beside her, turning over what Elissa soon learns are the remains of a human body, now a decaying piece of flesh.

"I don't think darkspawn eat people," she mutters, refraining from making a grimace at the sight and smell and that sour sensation of disgust welling up.

"It has not been eaten," Loghain says. "This is what death looks like if you leave the body be."

"Right." She thinks with a shudder about dwarves and how they send their dead back into the stone they came from, their bodies still intact, unburned. Or the Dalish, merely letting the dead rot. It is one of the strangest habits she has ever heard of. To be eaten by worms and slowly become tainted, sick earth. She wrinkles her nose.

"The knights are fine. No darkspawn. There is no passage to anywhere back there either. I checked to see if we missed anything." Alistair reappears, hoisting his shield.

Elissa gets up, averting her eyes from the corpse.

"This place looks like it's been used. As a house or something."

"Darkspawn houses, now _there's_ an image," Alistair retorts, puzzled.

Loghain gives her a look over his shoulder that tells her she might not be crazy after all; tells her that his mind, too, has made the unsettling connection of the details they have been given so far.

"I'm going to have another look," he says, heaving himself up.

As he leaves, Alistair shakes his head. "He doesn't trust anyone but himself, does he?"

She is about to say something in Loghain's defence – _he's just being thorough_ – when she realises the expression on Alistair's face isn't as dark as expected and her sharp comment vanishes unspoken.

"Anora is the same way," he adds. "You can't fool that woman. She always – _Well_. Never mind."

"Alistair, I-" Elissa lets her own voice fade away, not even knowing what she had intended to say.

Alistair turns away from her her.

"Why would darkspawn need a house?" He has devoted his attention to the room they're in, pacing the floor with one hand against the wall as though it would be able to tell him anything, as though he would feel something beside damp stone. "Banquets? Raising a family? They're _darkspawn_."

"Yes," she agrees, stupidly. A part of her – the part that can't believe he is the king, let alone call him Your Majesty – wants to confess what she has learned about darkspawn recently. Wants to sit in front of a fire with Alistair and Leliana and Wynne and Zevran and not keep any secrets because their mission, their hopelessly desperate but simple enough mission, requires no such things as all they want is to end the Blight. All the other parts of her know that she is a Warden now and that apart from today, Alistair isn't.

"Do you think they use this place for something? Summoning other darkspawn? Like emissaries do, drawing them from the ground?"

"Who knows?" Elissa adds a cheerfully stupid note to her voice, which rings oddly false in this place.

Alistair gives her a long, peculiar look but he asks no more.

And as they leave, she knows that the only thing she brings back with her, save a few scrolls Wynne found, is strange sensation of having missed something, a low hum of frustrating doubt gnawing at her very thoughts.

.

.

.

.

Following the mage's advice, they take a break for lunch once they are back outside the cave. The sun is partly hidden behind thin clouds but still warm, making Loghain regret the choice of armour for the day.

He slumps down on a tree trunk, unbuckling the breastplate slightly and leans back, drawing deep breaths. A bit further to his left, near the edge of the forest he sees the knights swarm around the king, who looks – to his credit – slightly embarrassed to be this coddled. It had never bothered Cailan, as far as Loghain recalls. Half the time he appeared to enjoy the adulatory displays that came with his title, a little too much, which had always left a bad taste in Loghain's mouth. His daughter had endured that brat with more patience than Loghain had thought she possessed, much more than Cailan deserved. It had seemed, even after a few bracing months on the throne, that Cailan had managed to pick up only the worst traits of a very young Maric – traits that the rebellion simply had no room for and had therefore erased – and none of his strengths. He was good-natured but weak, easily swayed and susceptible to flattery and lies if they hit his insecurities. More importantly, he was arrogant and dramatic and wanted to prove himself as good as Maric, if not better.

Loghain hopes this bastard son is more his father's equal. For all their sakes.

Because Anora has always held her love for the role as queen and for the throne itself higher than her love for the people who will take her there, her standards may vary, Loghain knows. If it serves her well, she endures fools gladly. He finds no particular information in the fact that she seems to enjoy the new husband's company.

Elissa, on the other hand, seems to be a harsh – and likely superior - judge of character.

Before she made a king of Maric's bastard, she had been involved with the boy after all, and it's not that Loghain has the faintest idea of what she considers worthwhile in a man, but he can't imagine that her preferences, even during a war, would be so faulty she would have taken an utter fool for lover.

Wincing slightly at the mental images conjured up by those thoughts – a plethora of situations involving the boy who looks _entirely_ too much like Maric and the commander, in various compromising situations - and Loghain isn't sure what undoes him more: the images or the fact that he _has_ them, within reach.

He shakes his head and glares at the food in his bowl. Mutton, cooked in a thick broth of ale and mushrooms and onions and served with black bread. It is _very_ good food. Not ordinary camp food, for certain. Perhaps they ought to travel with the royals more often.

"You did not want us to come."

Loghain looks up to see Anora standing there, carrying a flask and a sword. Two items that seem rather misplaced in her hands - so misplaced, in fact, that he blinks again to make sure he can trust his own eyes.

"I did not." He watches her as she sits down beside him. Her cheeks and the thin bridge of her nose are reddened from the sun, making her look flushed. She has never resembled her mother more. Celia would wear hats into the late autumn to protect her face, Loghain remembers, the vast and ever-growing collection of them always an odd thing to him, one of her few vices. "There is no reason you should occupy yourselves with this."

"Denerim is still under attack," Anora says and glances at him. "As are many other places - and not just in Ferelden. It seems to me that regents cannot sit idly by as this continues. Darkspawn may be your duty, this is true, but Ferelden is mine."

Loghain knows that something is brewing. Somewhere, around them and between them – between nations and people, between people and darkspawn – something is shifting. He knows all Wardens are aware of this. All skilled politicians too, most likely. Elissa had brought enough news with her from Orlais for them both to be able to construct a fairly plausible political map of the world after the Blight.

It's not a cheerful map, granted.

"The Empress still wants to negotiate?" he asks, swallowing a large piece of bread soaked in broth. For short periods of time he manages to forget the depths of this new hunger, how much he can eat before feeling full now.

Anora shoots him a grim smile. "Indeed."

He thinks about something Elissa told him in a letter, about how the darkspawn have become the currency of this war. When nobody acknowledged their existence, when the Blight was a tall tale men like Loghain could brush off as nonsense, the slightest bit of insight became priceless. The Empress of Orlais had used it to her advantage, as had Maric, he supposes. Now, however, everybody knows. The stakes are higher, the bargains much more expensive.

For all the idiocy in this undertaking, he supposes he can't deny Ferelden's regents the possible benefit that could come from it.

Anora observes him, sipping the water. Loghain isn't sure he has seen anyone wear splintmail and sip something at the same time but the twitch in the corner of her mouth tells him he would do well not to point it out to her. His daughter is a lot of things but she is not a very imposing sight here and now and she is well aware of this cruel piece of truth.

"I was not aware you had kept that," he says, nodding towards the sword that she still has a hold of, as though it will be needed with half an army of knights leaping to her rescue if she as much as chokes on a slice of bread. The red gems shine in the sun, giving the sword the illusion of being on fire.

As a girl she had been stubborn as a mule, loud and demanding and ever the resourceful one, making certain she had her way. For a long stretch of time she had wanted to be a knight. There had been no talking her out of if and she repeatedly got into the armoury in their keep, attempting to steal swords before running off to slay monsters. On Celia's advice, spelled out in one of the many despairing letters she wrote to him, Loghain had bought a blade for Anora's birthday.

"Oh, mother wouldn't let me throw it away," Anora replies, smiling faintly. "I found it returned to my room, plenty of times."

Of course, she had not needed the kind of enchanted, exquisitely decorated blade that Loghain had returned home with. The charcoal burner's brats with their wooden swords had not taken kindly to her red gems and pure gold; their circles closed even tighter and Anora came home, tear stains in her face and bruises on her arms, throwing the sword away.

He had thought she discarded it once and for all that year when Celia fell ill and died and Loghain withdrew into work and duty and Denerim. The cold fury in her gaze, he can see it flash through the layers of time even now, a hard surface of it at the bottom of even her warmest sentiments.

"You should have it replaced." Loghain scrapes she bowl clean with his last bread. "It is a rather poor blade now, in comparison."

Anora's smile deepens, transforms her into the young girl who had deemed him an insensitive monster one day and allowed him to comfort her the next.

"I am not replacing it, father," she says, softly.

"I never knew you to be sentimental," Loghain says in response to that. His voice is dry but he knows she hears the smile hidden in it.

"No more so than you."

He gives a derisive snort, but before he has composed a response, Anora has risen to her feet and lets one hand softly touch one of the braids in his hair before she walks away. It leaves him wordless. Those small things, unaffected by time and deeds done, reflecting a past where he still thought it possible to be someone else; Loghain tucks the braid behind his ear, almost by instinct. He has nearly lost the memory but the _taste_ of it, somewhere deep down and far back, carries a note of youth. He was young then and Celia was still shy in his presence in a way he found both irritating and disheartening and one day she had looked at him differently, her deft fingers had suddenly reached out – _hold on, let me_ – for the strands of hair that always fell into his eyes.

And it became a ritual, quiet and unassuming before battle or ceremony, later a daily habit.

Loghain looks up again, to see Elissa observing him from a distance. Her gaze is never anything remotely close to being unassuming, he thinks, meeting it after a moment's hesitation. It's a _power_ , demanding and revealing and it has managed to scrape his own defences bare in spots, forcing him to replace it in others. By all definitions she is very far from him, her shape an alien one in his life. She is a young woman – younger than Anora, he admits when he goes back in his long line of memories – with barely any experience similar to his own yet Loghain, after a year of reluctantly admitting her various strengths, considers her an equal. There is no sensible explanation for it, except her personality, her _nature_ that doesn't let him see her in any other way. Elissa is Elissa.

She nods and smiles at him, casually, the way she does sometimes, as though Loghain is a man you habitually offer that kind of gesture.

He nods back.

.

.

.

.

The second spot they come across – a small path leading to an empty winter lair belonging to bears and holding nothing of interest to anybody but Dog who picks up a scent of wild animals – is ticked off their list some hours later. It is safe to say that their estimated time plan was poorly made, Loghain establishes, as he looks at the map.

It is quickly decided that they will follow the map to another spot marked as one of the old, abandoned passages before returning the King and Queen to Denerim and picking up their search with a smaller party tomorrow. Anora seems to approve. The bastard king is more reluctant but he agrees eventually, a determined look on his face as they enter the last cave as though he intends to say that at least he will only give up after a decent fight.

The last spot for today is situated on their way back to the city, resembling a hole in the ground but once the area is cleaned up a little, a flight of broken stairs appears, leading the way down into the earth itself.

This time Loghain leads. Behind him are Elissa, the king, the mage and Dog. The second they descend fully, he is grateful Hedin was persuaded to remain with the Queen outside. The noise down here can make even Loghain doubt his own body; for seconds or longer he is convinced he is going to his own Calling, merely dropping everything else and following the soft music of his rushing blood.

He feels a hand on his back and doesn't have to turn his head to know it's Elissa, wordlessly reining him in. So she hears it, too. Except less seductively, he imagines. He ought to be closer to his Calling.

Once they - half-falling, half-climbing - are done with the stairs they stand in the middle of a road that certainly looks like a piece of the Deep Roads. And it is, unsurprisingly, crowded with darkspawn. From the sides of the tunnel they flood against them, from the dark corners and the hidden paths deeper inside the stone; Loghain hears no more than a loud howl from Dog before the battle is upon them once more.

They fight as a group until the lines of genlocks are thinned out; as the hurlocks arrive, Wynne is thrown off her feet and into a wall, landing with a groan and a thud on the floor. Loghain sees Elissa prop her up, before narrowly avoiding an arrow. Dog sets off after another knot and then, in a moment's respite, the commander clutches Loghain's arm, demanding his attention.

"I'm going down that tunnel," she says, in a half-whisper. Dog barks from behind her, tugging at her hand in an inefficient attempt at convincing her not to. "That's where they come from. You handle Dog."

Because she knows he is not about to protests against her battle tactics, no matter how far-fetched and inane they may seem, she doesn't wait for his answer. She has hurried away, is out of sight before anyone else – except Dog, whining furiously and launching himself at a hurlock to still the worries – has reacted.

Some moments later, however, the boy king has noticed her absence and runs towards Loghain, a livid expression on his face, fighting rather impressively without paying much attention to it. His gaze is hard as rock when it meets Loghain's.

"Where did she go?"

Loghain nods towards the tunnel only seconds before his reply is drowned in a deafening rumble. One one of cavities along the sides has caved in, leaving only a large pile of stone and rubble behind – the reason for it seems to be a source of magic, coming from the tunnel Elissa just slipped into.

"Your _Majesty_ ," Loghain all but reaches out for the boy's arm to grab hold of him, but catches himself.

"She's alone in there." Alistair's voice is cold as he responds, mid-fight with a hurlock who swings his axe and misses, falling headlong for a shield bash.

He wonders if there is something in Maric's blood sprouting these forceful heroic ideals, remembering him exactly like this. Even with Rowan who inadvertently set him off on rescue missions despite Maric being the weaker fighter of the two – she had never needed to be saved, not _once_ for as long as Loghain had known her, and the fact that Maric didn't agree had always been a grinding, grating matter of dispute between them. Loghain had thought it typical that Maric who had her sodding heart in his hands didn't even _know_ her.

"She went alone in there for a _reason_." Loghain doesn't know why he even tries, like both young kings Loghain has served before, this one is also denying logic when emotions get in the way. Like blind fools they rush off, tossing everything else aside. "You stay here."

"No!" The King of Ferelden turns on his heel, stabbing a hurlock through dumb luck and the rush of fury. "I won't."

Loghain is about to point out that with Wynne knocked out, he and Dog will be the only ones left in this large tunnel, where darkspawn seem to be crawling out of every small path along the sides. He gathers the boy doesn't have much motivation to ensure Loghain's continued existence, on the other hand, so he swallows that silly remark.

But as though the very ground has heard his thoughts, the entrance to the tunnel crumbles - with another rumbling noise - before the boy has even reached it, leaving the commander trapped on the other side while they are trapped here, with an arriving flock of emissaries.

It seems a rather ironic way to die, all things considered, Loghain thinks, readjusting his grip of the sword.

In the end, it's more surprising _not_ to die.

The stream of genlocks seems incessant. And it's not that they are particularly troublesome to fight, because they are not, not after a year of practice and especially not since they usually carry weak weapons, but they are many and they are _tiring_. He is out of breath as he kills the last one in sight, looking over his shoulder to make certain the sodding king is still standing, too.

"We _have_ to get in there!" the boy shouts over the noises and despite the forced notes of his voice, Loghain can hear the unspoken accusations in it.

"Is there another way inside?"

Loghain turns, surprised to see the mage stand there, bleeding from a wound in her forehead but otherwise unscathed.

"Wynne!" the boy calls out. "Can you make the stones go away?"

He speaks of magic like a child, Loghain thinks irritably, probably seeing it as a cure for all nasty things and a soothing solution whenever something goes wrong.

"Not in any way that is safe." Wynne frowns, using her staff to steady herself momentarily. "If we blast them, we might bury everyone."

"So what are we going to do?" the boy – _king_ , Loghain attempts in his head, the boy is the king – approaches them, grim determination in his face. He gives Loghain an almost violent glare. "And if you even _suggest_ leaving her-"

"No need to worry about that, Your Majesty," Loghain cuts in, before trying in vain to look around a corner to determine whether or not it would be likely to find another path leading inside the larger road where Elissa went.

They walk for _much_ too long.

Loghain sends Dog in front of them, watching him pick up on the scent and bark angrily at stone and stray darkspawn alike, before he stops, his body taut and unmovable in front of a small opening in the compact walls, a dim light shifting through the darkness, suggesting something on the other side.

A cave. A cave spreading out before their eyes with the help of Wynne's magic and a good portion of stubbornness, Loghain gathers. A way inside, slim and narrow with harsh stones cutting into their sides as they sidle through it – but nonetheless a way inside.

The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the magical noise that filled it before, when Elissa went in. Loghain pushes the thoughts away and presses forward, the others at his heel.

There's a tight little knot in his chest that hardens even further at the sight of her body, unmoving and sprawled, farther inside the large centre of the cave. She is flat on the ground, one of her swords glimmering from a spot far away; the other is sticking up from the inside of an ogre's throat, only the hilt visible.

"Elissa?" Loghain kneels beside her on the stones, noticing a few scratches and a cracked lip. One of these days, Loghain knows, she will get her _skull_ irreparably cracked because she refuses to wear a helmet.

"I _told_ you-" the boy begins, his voice trailing off when he steps closer.

"Elissa?" Loghain places two fingers on the commander's neck, searching for the pulse - it responds when her voice does not, beating hard and steady against him; then she groans something inaudible and puts her hands to the ground, heaving herself up until she's sitting. At the sight of them a half-smile crosses her battered face.

"Sodding ogres," she hisses, still searching for her voice. It's always shocking to have to speak after an injury, Loghain knows. "Did I get them?"

He looks around. "You did."

"Good."

" _Elissa_." Alistair is squatting down too, dropping all of his posture at once, looking softly at the commander.

"You shouldn't run into battle like that," Elissa concludes wryly, lifting one hand very slowly to feel the cracked lip. She winces with pain as the tips of her fingers trace the swell. "Andraste's arse, Alistair, you really should know better."

"I know," he admits reluctantly, glancing at Loghain as though he is to blame for _this_ , too.

"I was doing very well before you two stormed in," Elissa grunts, lips barely moving. "Kept myself unnoticed. Believe it or not but when I have to, I can be stealthy."

Loghain doesn't _quite_ believe her, but he decides this is not the time nor place for that particular conversation.

"This is your work then?" Loghain ask and nods towards the floor, where an impressing number of darkspawn lie defeated. A smile plays at the back of his mind.

"Yes." She nods gravely. "There were emissaries, too, as you can see."

Wynne has already begun to examine the remains of those, Loghain notices, as Elissa looks at him again, with something of importance on her mind but no way of saying it in this company.

"We should get out of here," the king states, rather needlessly.

"Good thinking," Elissa agrees.

Elissa makes an effort to stand, slowly and with moderate success as she collapses back down on her knees; swallowing visibly she crawls back up, glancing almost unnoticeably at Loghain, in a silent and secret confession of the kind they usually only practice in public. It is a wordless plea for assistance, between two people who never admit weakness. Offering his hand, Loghain has to admit that it hits a peculiarly gleeful note in him that she has no such bond to the boy who has turned his back to them and begun to walk. The mage gathers the last items from the fallen bodies and joins him, leaving Loghain with Elissa who is threading carefully and with one arm around his shoulder.

"How hurt are you?" he asks, keeping his voice down.

"Oh, never mind _that_. It heals."

Loghain slips one arm around her waist as she seems to stop; her face turns towards him as he does so, and her gaze digs into his own, urging him to stop as well.

"They didn't want to kill me," she whispers then, her mouth so close to Loghain's ear that her words are wrapped in hot flushes of breath against his skin. "They tried to capture me."


	20. Of kings and generals

They seem to have been underground forever when they eventually – _finally_ – spot a section of the damp-smelling roads that look similar to the place where they descended.

Having downed a potion for the wounds, Elissa keeps up with the others by leaning heavily on Loghain and telling herself that pain is merely an emotion like any other, like she had heard a crusty old soldier serving her father say once. It doesn't work particularly well when something inside your body has clearly changed shape entirely, but she keeps at it anyway.

"Who tried to capture you?" Loghain's question is a whisper-breath only a thumb's length away from her ear. "The emissaries?"

Elissa nods. "One of them spoke."

Then suddenly Wynne turns, looking back at them and for a moment Elissa panics, thinking she has overheard them and they will have to explain everything which she _definitely_ doesn't want to right now. She just gives them a strange look, however, before the reason for her turning around becomes quite clear – in front of them stands the largest ogre Elissa has ever seen, accompanied by four emissaries walking in a circle around it, chanting.

"Shit." It slips out of Elissa, stupidly, before she can catch herself.

"Can you fight?" Loghain releases her, reaching for his sword. When his body no longer serves as a moving support she stumbles a bit, has to take a few sudden steps to regain her balance. Nobody notices, not even Loghain, who is too busy taking in the scene ahead.

"Naturally," Elissa says, a little too sharply for it to _sound_ perfectly natural.

The ogre is wrapped in light, a grainy sort of magical light that she has learned is a form of protective shield. It thunders towards them, the ogre and its shield, and Elissa barely has time to throw herself to the side, but Dog is quicker than the large creature at any rate, and leaps in front of his mistress, making himself as imposing as possible as he goes into the battle.

It's a lengthy fight, drawn-out and scattered, the kind of battle that will translate badly into the Grey Warden records, Elissa concludes as she darts between the curses and Wynne's conjured spirits. Alistair slays one of the last two emissaries with an enormous effort, judging by the look on his face, just as the ogre who has not yet fallen by Loghain's blade makes a new turn, facing Alistair instead.

"Elissa!" Wynne warns from her spot a bit further away, spirit energy flowing off her fingertips and circling around them all, like ribbons wrapped tightly around those it touches.

Elissa turns, quickly, managing to duck the last emissary's staff and its curse before she sees from the corner of her eyes how Alistair is beaten to the ground and how the ogre picks up the king's sword, raising it in the air and in that moment she knows how it will end, she _knows_ it and she is too far away -

As she tries to run, she realises she is trapped in a curse, Wynne's protection wearing thin as the mage struggles to even stand upright. She's too exhausted for this, Elissa can see in her face, much too drained and _shaking_ , the wall supporting her. Maker knows how much lyrium it took to get them out of the cave. She must be out of it, otherwise she would have taken more – the realisation hits with a burning clarity, and Elissa pushes inside the magical prison, her elbows and shoulders angry blades until finally she is feeling a little breach but it's still too late.

Behind her Wynne has closed her eyes and Alistair is going to -

Then everything seems to flash and the next thing she sees is Dog on the ogre's back and Loghain on all fours on the ground right beside Alistair, the massive sword buried deep somewhere in Loghain's shoulder. Something comes to an abrupt halt, as though a layer of time shifts. Coldness jolts through her despite the heavy beat of her heart and the sweat on her face.

They forged a new sword for the new king, she remembers distantly inside the fog of her head, a merciless, heavily enchanted sword that cuts through the hardest of metals.

Elissa is there with them as soon as the curse's power over her vanishes and without daring to look at the ground, see the faces of either of the wounded, she has leapt up on the ogre, the anger making her momentarily able to forget the previous injuries for as long as it takes to bury both her blades in the broad, deformed back. She has it in her muscles, fighting these things, and she is grateful for it now. There's a twitch of life beneath her own body yet so she pulls the blades out and cuts into the creature's throat, furiously, using every last breath of strength.

The ogre gives a hoarse cry as it goes down and Dog sets off after the emissary while Elissa shambles into a graceless lump beside Loghain and Alistair.

They are both quiet. Dishearteningly, _painfully_ quiet, she thinks, catching hold of herself and her own body. She needs voices, words, reassuring lies – anything but this cold silence.

"Loghain?"

He gives a nod in response, and when she crawls closer to him she notices the sword is penetrating his right shoulder and a bit of his chest and Elissa draws a sharp breath, instinctively putting her hands around the bleeding wounds, as though she would be able to mend them like a mage. She can't, of course, and he shoots her a strange glance. Elissa withdraws her hands, feeling stupid.

"Alistair?" she asks, tilting her head to get a better look of his face. It is pale and sweaty but his eyes are open, watching her and Loghain.

"Yes."

"Are you...?"

"Well, I don't think my neck snapped, at any rate. Sounded like it for a moment," he says, and for once Elissa is grateful for his annoying sense of humour. It makes the air down here a bit easier to breathe.

A long moment passes. One of those moments that expands time itself, until it's a swollen, shivering presence above their head and _brimful_ with words that need to be said and gestures wanting to be made, but they are frozen and Elissa half-sits like a statue, caught in between it all.

Alistair and Loghain, she notices, exchange a look that is a curious blend of surprise and anger and something else, something she can't identify. The weight of it slams heavy against the stone walls.

Neither of them speak and Elissa has not found any more words when Dog returns, gently leading Wynne.

"I'm afraid I will... need to rest for a bit... before I can heal." Wynne slumps down with them, completing the pitiful little heap of battered fighters. Only Dog remains standing, moving forward, cleaning up the mess somewhat and guarding the entrances. "Just a second."

Alistair has managed to conjure up enough strength to sit; beside him Loghain remains in the same position, but his breathing comes more regularly now, slower. He says nothing. When she studies his face she sees how he presses back his pain and it makes her want to hold it for him, _share_ it as though such a thing was possible and she was a sodding martyr of goodness.

It's a strange sound in Elissa, a noise that has nothing to do with darkspawn. This is a sound of something else, much more private and difficult to parse through, her thoughts trembling around it. She lifts her hands from her lap; they are soaked in Loghain's blood. But he will be _fine_ , because Wynne is there and her face is lit again as she crawls to stand upright. Elissa bites back a stray sentence that would have sounded misplaced.

Then she looks at Alistair, smiling at him through the last remains of fear and worry.

He smiles back, oddly, inclining his head as though offering her a gesture of respect.

.

.

.

.

In the slowly setting sun they have their wounds tended to and their bellies filled with tender venison, against a backdrop of a forest that is burning in the reddening sky, treetops stretching towards it like flames. The bustling life of the scene reminds Elissa of paintings she has seen, depicting soldiers returning from battle into the arms of their loved ones.

Wrapping a poultice around her ankle she observes Wynne, resting in the shadow of the wagon full of supplies. The knights are doing their part in the closing of the passage, shovelling rock and earth, a scent of sweat rising from their crowd in front of the entrance. They will let Wynne seal it with magic later.

But for the moment the mage sits cross-legged on the ground, bent over today's collection of records and scrolls and Elissa walks up to her, a strange and unsettled noise running through her head. In addition to nearly being captured and having both Loghain and Alistair all but dying under her command, she fears the hints of magic they have unearthed today, the suggestion of things being _connected,_ the world beneath them vaster than she wants to even imagine.

"Shouldn't you rest?" Elissa asks, realising she sounds almost accusing and adds a softer: "Have you eaten?"

Wynne's face is troubled and very pale as she looks up.

"This is old Tevinter magic," she says, spreading the scrolls on the ground, as though the gesture would make Elissa able to interpret the writing.

"Magic?"

"It looks like ancient runes," Wynne clarifies. "And these, here, are old Arcanum characters used specifically for magical writing."

"Can you decipher it at all?" Elissa asks, not even wanting to hear the answer. There's a hand around her heart, its grip leaving her breathless.

"Barely. And only a few fragments." Wynne puts her finger to a cluster of runes in the middle of a half-scorched scroll. "That means The Golden City."

"That sounds-" Elissa swallows. "I heard rumours that there might still be cults devoted to the old gods. Is that true?"

Wynne nods, briefly, still looking at the records before her with great intensity as if hoping the signs will suddenly translate themselves if she commands them to.

"It is said those cults exists, yes. In the Anderfels. And in Tevinter, of course." She looks at Elissa. "Some claim there are even temple ruins still existing although most of those must have been destroyed by now."

"Could... could anyone learn to use this kind of magic?"

"Emissaries, you mean?" Wynne raises an eyebrow, pondering for a while. "We have not seen the darkspawn use any advanced form of magic thus far, but I am not saying it would never be possible. Anything is, as I'm sure you know."

Elissa lets out a sigh. "Right."

"I cannot say how old these documents are or for which purpose they are being used; I would need more time to study them-"

"Wynne, I-" Elissa watches the shattered sentence break apart in front of them, leaving her mouth like breaths of ice in the late afternoon heat. "This is Warden business. You will have copies of these of course, but I... we will take today's records and investigate them ourselves."

"Of course." The tone is neutral, though the slight touch of austerity to the words implies a hint of something else behind it. Disappointment.

Elissa feels the other woman's gaze burn her own secrets to ashes. She looks away, as though it would help.

.

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.

.

Maric's son sits with his back against a tree, unusually unguarded and equally unobserved, as Loghain makes his way across the field of the temporary camp.

From a distance he is so much like his father that time shivers around them, shifting painfully back to another life. They were young once. Young and unrefined and clumsy, using each other as mirrors and cautionary tales, _pretending_ life the way it could be, making the best of what they were handed. There had been good days, a lot of them spent in Arl Rendorn's camp. Days of plenty, of simple summer nights and bonds slowly forming and reforming them all as they decided who they were to both each other and themselves. Life was still a choice and the stark reality behind those choices had not yet begun to fully surface. It is possible, Loghain admits now, that they were even _happy_ , as strange as it seems given the circumstances.

The new king looks like Maric did back then, looks unarmed and _lethal_ , with that softness that would fell Loghain every time, all those years ago.

When Loghain draws nearer, standing in the way and shading the sun to get his attention, Maric is gone and the boy looks like himself again, a frown on his face as he glances up.

"Oh," he says, as though expecting someone else.

"I take it you are healed?"

"Yes," the king says and there's an edge to the small word, leaving it curiously open to both anger and suspicion. Loghain hardly blames him for either.

He nods, beginning to regret the decision to speak to the other man at all. It had seemed a reasonable idea, acknowledging what happened underground and agreeing to never make mention of it again.

"Many good men and women died so you could have the throne," he says instead, sharper then he intended. "It seems a waste for you to die so soon."

Alistair's eyes widen slightly at that, but he says nothing in response and Loghain remains quiet, as well, standing motionless like a statue before the boy who is not Maric.

It was said Loghain was going to betray Maric.

Only once, and by a sodding witch of the wilds at that, but it was _said_ and it kept being said, over and over in Loghain's memory. Sometimes he still hears it, the prediction, that awful judgement of his character. No matter how many oaths he swore or how many times he had nearly given his life for Maric's, Loghain would always be the man destined for betrayal.

And it seems the witch was right, too. He gives her that.

He should have been on that bloody ship instead of the king and everyone knows it. He was the expendable one in the rebel prince's keep. Even as a teyrn and a commander of Ferelden's forces Loghain was expendable – the only difference was that people no longer dared to say it was true for fear of hanging. Loghain should have gone to Orlais, should have convinced the king to stay behind and Loghain should have been the one hurriedly burned in Highever, his body no more than a whisper of the man he had been.

The loss of Maric is still a dull ache, but the knowledge that it could have – _should_ have - been Loghain in his place is almost unbearable even seven years later.

"I'm not going to forgive you, just so you know," the new king of Ferelden says, seemingly inside Loghain's very thoughts.

Loghain holds back a grimace as he meets the other man's gaze. "There is no reason you should."

"It _can't_ be forgiven, what you did at Ostagar. Or afterwards, to Ferelden and to the elves and-" the boy cuts himself off. He sounds like a pupil reciting something he was told to learn by heart, the words falling awkwardly from his lips. Then he clears his throat, kingly again. "You were shown mercy once. It won't happen again."

Loghain wonders why it is commonly assumed that he is somehow foolish enough to _demand_ forgiveness. As though he is looking at everyone the way he would look at the sodding Maker himself, asking them to judge him whole and tell him he has sung to their approval. He may be many unflattering things but at least he holds no self-delusional hopes about the consequences of his actions.

"I am aware of that," he replies, simply. It seems to unsettle the boy to hear him agree, and Loghain can't deny there is a certain satisfaction in that.

Around them, everyone is gathering in formations, great and small. They will be leaving shortly, Loghain assumes, and the sealing should require their presence as soon as the knights are done digging. Cauthrien seeks his gaze across the field and he is about to walk up to her as he notices both Elissa and the mage making their way there.

"They see something in you, I suppose," the boy states, suddenly. His gaze is fastened somewhere behind Loghain, on the people walking around back there, packing and working on the entrance that soon will be sealed. "I don't, but there you go."

Loghain frowns. "Who are they?"

"Anora and Elissa." The boy shrugs, which seems painful because his face stiffens and he leans back again, with a soft sigh. "Well, I suppose Anora would. And Elissa has spared enough people for me not to be surprised that she decided to spare you, too. Not really."

"They are both pragmatic," Loghain says, as evenly as possible. "It is a valuable trait for people with power."

Alistair scoffs; it's a sound of every bit as much disdain as Maric could muster up, if given a reason. "Thanks for the advice."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Loghain nods curtly, suppressing a sneer.

"Was my father like that?"

Loghain makes another effort to leave but the boy's inquiry catches him mid-step, the words pulling him back.

"Like what?" Loghain wonders how much of the truth the boy wants to hear – how much of the truth Loghain wants to reveal. _You treat the memory of him better than you ever treated the man_ , Anora snaps in his head, newly crowned as Cailan's queen and defending her husband as though she is no longer making a distinction between him and herself.

"Pragmatic." Alistair looks at his sword, shifts it a bit before putting it back down on the ground; then he finds a spot on his impeccably clean shield that apparently needs more polishing and scrapes his blunt nails against it.

"Yes." Loghain hesitates only a second. "Eventually."

"Because you decided so?" What appears to be genuine curiosity blends with the underlying hostility in the boy's voice, twisting angry ropes around the question. The scraping increases, leaving a horrible sound in its wake.

"Perhaps," Loghain replies, his voice sharper. "Or perhaps because he was a good man who wanted to be a good king."

Alistair looks like he is about to say something, but then he closes his mouth, averting his eyes. This finally seems to end the conversation.

They will compare him to Maric in the same cruel way they did to Cailan, Loghain knows as he is turning to walk away; he hopes this boy will at least have the strength and decency to endeavour to deserve the comparison.

"Loghain," Alistair calls out, as if on cue, raising his voice somewhat but not making it loud enough for it to be overheard through the many intertwined murmurs of the camp. "Thank you."

Loghain doesn't stop at the sound of the boy's voice but there is a beat inside him that does for a second, stops with a harsh, twisted echo of something long gone.

He truly _is_ his father's son.

.

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.

.

The monarchs of Ferelden will have beautiful children, Elissa concludes, glancing up from the task of pressing down today's found property into her already full backpack. It is nearly bursting at the seams as she slams her hands into it, trying to flatten the contents.

Such beautiful little royal heirs. Blond and tall with clear lines and blue eyes, like something out of a fairytale. She sighs.

In his corner of the camp, Alistair is making certain they have everything they need before leaving, she can tell. His silhouette is constantly moving both outside and inside her head, flickering with light and shadows; he finally deems their little caravan satisfactory, and gestures for everyone to start gathering around him.

Elissa mutters as the pack remains impossible to close, deciding to leave it open rather than getting rid of anything.

Across the field, Alistair is looking at something in his pack, too – holding up a darkspawn dagger in the light – and talking to Anora at the same time. Anora leans in, a curious expression on her face as she listens to what he is telling her, smiling and somehow _settling_ beside him, her posture mirroring his own. It looks remarkably _easy_ , the subdued play between them, a harmonious rhythm that seems to enclose them both.

It's heartening, somehow.

Elissa tries to look at them without getting caught doing just that, her eyes travelling from the packing to the marital scene many feet away.

She hears her mother's tirade:

Love is nothing you can count on, nor is it something necessarily _good_ or desirable or worth aiming at. It does not make things simpler. A marriage, whether between nobles or commoners, is thought to facilitate the daily grind; husbands and wives should make each other's burdens lesser, their estates grander and life better for one another. Love, my dear little girl, her mother says in her head, complicates the matter. It had been easy for her mother to say this of course, after nearly thirty years of what appeared to be a happy, loving marriage of her own. Easy to claim this while she all but shipped her daughter off to marry the Teyrn of Gwaren or one of those other suitable men of various age and status that she had suggested.

_You cannot count on love to save you, my dear little girl._

And Elissa couldn't seem to fall in love anyway, so what _was_ the fuss about? Ghost-mother tuts in her head, her smile warm and slightly fraught with irritated anxiety.

 _Count yourself lucky to be so sensible_ , Nan adds, her hands cupping Elissa'a cheeks.

Perhaps she was lucky – _is_ lucky. Elissa who thinks too much, thinks too far, her mind jumping ahead of her heart so that every imagined scenario, every thought kiss or confession seems wrong, misplaced, _premature._ Elissa who doesn't value her heart very high anyway, reason pressing down on it until it falls silent with a gasp.

She would have loved Alistair. Of this she is certain. Theirs would have been a marriage for history to remember, for girls and boys to write into their mythology of love and bravery. Like King Maric and Queen Rowan who fought for each other and the whole kingdom and there was always love and never anything before or beyond to shatter the perfect images that are, Elissa knows now, fragile like the finest porcelain.

"We are returning to the city!" Alistair shouts, mounting his horse and disappearing in the bustle that follows his order. A moment later his head reappears in the swarm, flanked by the Queen's.

Elissa hoists her things, decides to ignore the still-aching muscles and sets off as well.

"They seem to have found common ground." Loghain walks up behind her, wearing a loose-fitted suit of splintmail armour, likely to allow room for the bandages wrapped around his chest. It's a rare sight.

"They have." Elissa smiles back, a sloppy smile tossed over her shoulder. Her face feels bare and unmanageable, like it resists any sort of commands tonight, too exhausted from all the masks she has worn recently. Loghain looks away, observing the slowly moving group ahead of them; she wonders if he notices. "It should make things easier."

"It should."

"You probably saved his life down there," she says, driving Dog in front of her so he isn't running like a fool between them all, eager to be moving again.

Loghain's gaze is still somewhere else as he responds. "You sound surprised."

"I'm not."

She cannot help but think about how different her life would have been, had she stepped on that ship to Gwaren all those years ago, replacing the well-established and reasonably respected Teyrna Mac Tir in the teyrnir her father claimed was no bigger than their own courtyard.

To be married to _Loghain_. Elissa frowns thinking about it, her gaze sweeping over the edges of his face now, as though they would tell her something.

She would not have loved him, never like that. He would have been too old to respect her and she would have been young enough to let it slip, probably allowing his demeanour to frighten her. Perhaps all she would know, even after years of marriage, would be his most unlovable features. They would be what she saw because they are overlaying everything, even now, unless you find the cracks and gashes. There is something _sad_ about that, the idea of human beings as moulded in stone, as statues, little more than set and fixed marks on a map and unable to change even for each other.

"Wynne thought the scrolls we found in the caves today could be old Tevinter magic," Elissa blurts as Loghain gives her an odd glance. She feels her entire body relax, safe inside the familiar, simpler emotions of duty and everything surrounding it. So perhaps this is not what _Wynne_ means by comfort but it's _her_ comfort and it's sufficient, she thinks, almost snorting at her own thought.

"Magic connected to the old gods?" Loghain asks, immediately leaping to the same conclusion as she did before.

"I don't know. _She_ doesn't know. We'll need to examine the records; I was thinking we should bring them to the Warden I told you about, the mage?"

He nods.

Elissa nods too, as though fortifying the decision.

It's a fine evening. With the sun less intrusive and the heat ebbing away, their short march back to Denerim is rather pleasant, all things considered. Loghain doesn't seem to be in any immediate pain, so she refrains from asking him about it; her own side is aching but that, she knows, is nothing a decent potion later can't take the edge off.

"It frightens me," she admits when they have walked for a length of time without saying anything to each other. "That there is a whole world down there. And we're here, knowing nothing about it."

"We no longer know _nothing_ about it," Loghain remarks, throwing a chunk of cheese to Dog who catches it before it has even landed on the road. "But I agree, the thought is not reassuring."

"I got the impression-" Despite being a good deal behind the rest of the group, Elissa looks around and lowers her voice. Oddly enough it feels like being a child again, having terribly important secrets with Hestia. "I got the impression it wasn't merely darkspawn down there. Or that this is just darkspawn activity. All of it, I mean, not just today. It feels too... _orderly_. The attacks in the north, the people disappearing, the passages. They seem to know what they are doing, but I don't know... perhaps darkspawn can learn strategy, too."

Loghain seems to ponder this for a bit, then he glances at her sideways. "I do not doubt that darkspawn could gain followers outside," he says, dryly. "The capacity for people doing stupid deeds cannot be underestimated."

"The question is - who would gain anything by working for darkspawn?" Elissa readjusts her swords that keep slamming into each other on her back. "And who would know there was anything to gain?"

"Wardens, perhaps?" Loghain doesn't sound certain and leaves the question hanging. When she can't reject it as implausible either, it forms a chilling presence in the air between them, lingering there regardless of the pace they keep.

"We'll find out," she concludes when something needs to be spoken.

Denerim, its lights and faint sounds spreading out in between the trees and the old, broken statues along the sides of the road, has never looked more welcoming.

And never more fragile.

* * *


	21. Let the right one slip in

They should have lost one of the older Wardens instead, Elissa thinks, grimacing at the pile of scrolls on her desk.

They should have lost Ada or Hedin or the veteran soldiers Loghain had recruited - anyone but Adrianna, who truly was one of the best fighters they have come across all year. Adrianna who was barely older than Elissa, at that, and ought to have been important to the Wardens for many years to come.

But of course, nothing is _fair_.

Elissa writes Adrianna's name in the journal where they chronicle the Wardens, their recruitments, Joinings and deaths, chronicle them as though this would place their marks in the world, make them part of the circle of life going on outside of their ranks. A family tree for those who never had families or whose families weren't defined by name or bloodlines.

Adrianna had been killed during their second excursion to seal the Deep Roads entrances a few days earlier and her absence has left an unexpected gash in the small group, a tear at their illusive safety.

Yesterday had been a day of burial, of scrambling together a ritual suited for Wardens dying in battle, which she had never previously considered the need for. Hedin, to his credit, had made no mention of her perplexed shrugs and questions and the burial fire and the following ceremony had been moving. She had pulled through.

Today, however, is a day of appointments and paperwork, the first day when the titles attached to Elissa's name are forcibly there, present in an almost _tangible_ way, as though they are becoming physical shapes with voices and minds of their own, sitting on her shoulders and observing her work. They offer very little praise, so far.

After breakfast, Elissa meets with the envoy from Amaranthine who informs her of the situation there and asks her to sanction the seneschal's latest suggestions for Vigil's Keep. It's an appointment kept brief but that still leaves a lingering taste of bitterness in her mouth. _This is the future,_ a persistent voice says in her head. _No running away for you, my lady Warden._

At noon Elissa has a meal sent up to her chambers – boar and stewed cabbage – and eats it while going through the first pile – marked _urgent_ – of letters and inquiries. People turn to the Grey Wardens with the strangest things, she is reminded of as she reaches the other pile – marked as _non_ - _urgent_ , for simplicity's sake – and crumbles up a letter from a man who seeks aid in tracking down some precious gems said to be common in the Free Marches. She tries to imagine Loghain's facial expression as she, serious-faced and commanding, would explain to him that they are to make a quick detour to collect jewels for a nutty old man. It makes her grin, thinking about it.

Loghain is outside in the courtyard, she knows, allowing the trail of thought to go there; he is outside dealing with a small crowd of potential recruits and she can hear him through the open window by her desk, discern his voice in the flurry of metal and commands. She would know that voice anywhere. It's deep and stern, heavily marked by thirty years of leadership and only rarely – and privately – broken up in warmer notes. There is nothing warm about it today.

Elissa leans forward, looking down on the double lines of soldiers and knights who are present to prove their capacity with a sort of wistful longing rising in her. She wants to be down there in the sun and heat, surrounded by dirt and swords and the scent of battle instead of here, feeling like the little girl in Highever who begged in vain for permission to become a knight. She wants to be there, by Loghain's side and decide who is worthy and who is not.

It's a lovely day. Summer has tightened its grasp of them; over the last fortnight every tree seems to have blossomed and the air is no longer chilly, not even breezes from the north and the sea.

The potential recruits look hot and bothered in the unforgiving sunlight, most of them are wearing only undershirts and trousers by now. It's a rather pleasant sight, Elissa admits to herself, a blur of metal giving off shimmering reflections and a cluster of strong bodies used to the rhythm of fighting, dancing around each other in a familiar if slightly odd routine.

It is deep in her, that rhythm; it's built-in and growing steadily, intertwined with the way she moves, the way she thinks, the way she _desires_.

Rising from her core, spreading through blood and bones it is _part_ of her, has become her and even from this distance she can't deny the appeal of the scenery, a little jolt of excitement landing in the pit of her stomach, as her gaze travels over the men and women and then to Loghain, in front of them all. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves and the fabric of the shirt is sticking to his back, plastered against his skin in the heat. As he raises his sword, one of the soldiers steps forward and Elissa finds herself still looking, fascinated. Yet again she is the little girl in Highever who later became a young woman who had both resented and desired the knights and footsoldiers for doing what she wasn't allowed to. She'd stand and watch them, as well, leaning in and shifting her weight as she offered some words of encouragement, giving them the coy noblewoman they seemed to take her for. It had amused her endlessly to join in, disarming the opponent with the element of surprise the first time, later with her swordmanship.

If she could be down there now, she would berate the soldier for letting Loghain overpower her completely before even starting the duel. There is simply no sense in admitting defeat beforehand, not even if the opponent is Loghain Mac Tir. _Especially_ not then.

Shaking her head, Elissa returns to the paperwork until she is interrupted a moment later by soft footfalls, and finds the mildest, most terrified of all the maids in the household standing beside her desk, curtseying.

"You have a visitor, Commander. May I show her in?"

Elissa rises from the chair and greets Cauthrien who is barely recognizable as _Cauthrien_ since she's not wearing armour but a tunic and trousers. Idle days and the earliest stages of summer seem to be rocking the very foundations of the earth, Elissa thinks, vaguely amused.

"Commander." Cauthrien nods.

"Ah, _yes_ ," Elissa says. "Good. I wanted to talk to you."

"Yes. I gathered as much from the invitation." Like Loghain, Cauthrien has a voice that carries several different flavours all at once, making it difficult sometimes to know if it is sarcastic or genuine, composed or uninterested.

"We've finished the search for entrances to the Deep Roads, as you know," Elissa begins. "At least for the time being. "

Nearly a week's delay in their plans and the loss of a fine Warden aside, it has been worth it, Elissa decides. Having sealed three passages leading underground they have at least done _something_ and Alistair has directed plenty of men out into the wilds, with the specific mission to guard the discovered, now closed, entrances and keep their eyes open for new ones.

Cauthrien looks at her for a second, as though evaluating her answer. "Ser Adrianna was a good warrior; it was an unfortunate battle."

"Loghain seems intent on replacing her before we leave Denerim," Elissa says, gesturing towards the courtyard.

"Are we still set for departure tomorrow?"

Elissa walks up to the window, opening it even further. The room smells too much of indoors, a musty air sinking down over her.

"Yes. There is a slight change of plans, however," she says, looking over her shoulder. "I want you to go to Highever with my brother. I would like you to participate in the defences of the Coastlands, such as they are."

There is a little flicker of light in Cauthrien's eyes – a spontaneous, instinctive agreement or protest – before she composes herself and merely nods.

Cauthrien should be a general or a commander, of course, like she had been merely a year ago. Everything about her – her body, her voice, her posture – still remembers the details of that life, it's impossible not to notice. But she had been on the losing side in the civil war and therefore, Elissa reminds herself, it is not strange that she is here, being _commanded._

"Yes, Commander."

"The Wardens will be there, and the King will send as many soldiers as he can afford, as well. You won't be alone."

"I see."

Through the window Elissa watches another soldier draw his dual swords in front of Loghain and again she wants to stand there and correct, wants to meddle. They all respect him entirely too much. He is a great fighter but he is not bloody _indestructible_ , she berates in her head. Like all men he is made of flesh and blood, not legend and myth.

Elissa herself had been running on the sheer rush of power from having held the Landsmeet in her hands, never allowing herself even a second to catch her breath or looking back and she can still hear Alistair's low, urgent voice in her head – _let me fight him, please_.

In the courtyard, Loghain barks something at his opponent and Elissa notices that Cauthrien, too, watches the scene with a spark of interest in the normally quite unreadable eyes.

"They are much too respectful," she comments evenly, folding her arms across her chest. "And sloppy. They are merely irritating him. He punishes reverence and arrogance alike."

Elissa has to grin at the apt summary of the sometimes hopelessly frustrating lines one has to avoid crossing to gain that man's respect.

Elissa had initially tried to use Loghain's strength against him, back in the devout silence of the Landsmeet chamber. Had tried to make herself small and quick, to wear him out – he was unaccustomed to daily battle and more than twice her age, after all – and it might have worked, _would_ perhaps have worked, had she not lost patience mid-fight and decided she wanted to win through the strength of her swordarm and endurance of her movements rather than some trickster routine. The Landsmeet, as she remembers it, had held its collective breath at the shift, the sudden change of pace. Most of them had probably assumed it was the end, that the teyrn had bested the Cousland girl, like they expected him to, Warden or not.

But there had been a brief moment, caught up in the blurred lines of fear and hatred and fury and some odd trace of disappointment – she had asked him to step down gracefully, had genuinely hoped he would – when he looked at her and she looked at him, before they both readjusted their weapons and continued, face to face, sword to sword.

 _You fought forever_ , Leliana had told her afterwards, although to Elissa it had seemed like mere minutes between the look of mutual understanding and the final gesture of victory when Elissa had knelt, one of her knees roughly pinning Loghain to the floor and the tip of her sword resting against his throat. And his eyes, the way they widened in realisation and – of all things – respect, before settling into a gaze that seemed to say _go on, do it, I dare you._

"At least he won't bring any broken reeds into my ranks," Elissa says, scratching the back of her hand and letting her gaze fall on Cauthrien.

"Indeed."

"You must have been young when he recruited you?" Elissa half-asks, feeling transparent for a moment as though the echoes behind her words leave imprints all over her. It has never been clear what Loghain is to Cauthrien, and Elissa has never imagined asking – or even wondering – about it before. Now the scattered strands of thoughts and impulses in her head all seem to linger around that very question, spinning themselves around it.

"Fourteen years." Cauthrien shifts position slightly, leaning one shoulder against the stone wall near the window, not looking at Elissa as she replies. "But I told him I was seventeen."

"Did he believe you?" Elissa has a feeling she already knows the answer.

"Hardly. I was just a scrawny little brat."

"What about your family, did they not object?"

Elissa's question is met with a scoff and she thinks she's made one of her usual clumsy errors by assuming everyone has her own experiences. _Some of us did not grow up in a castle_ , Leliana says in her head, voice torn between amusement and reproach. For all Elissa knows Cauthrien's parents might have been dirt poor commoners thankful for a bit of coin in exchange for their daughter.

"My worthless father spent his days letting the crops go to waste by drinking and tormenting his cowering wife," Cauthrien says, harshly. "I would not call him _family_."

"And Loghain took you away to Denerim."

"He did." Cauthrien gives a sharp-edged smile and continues, uncharacteristically unreserved. "He saw to my training and education. The teyrna, Loghain's wife, employed my mother in Gwaren when I told him I could not leave her. For all his faults, Commander, Loghain is far from the heartless monster you may believe him to be."

Elissa realises the firm and final touch of Cauthrien's voice reminds her of the way Alistair would speak of Duncan, allowing no room for objections or doubts because his own image of the man was so fixated it had no open lines, no blanks to be filled.

"I don't think I have ever believed _that_ ," Elissa says, thoughtfully.

And it's the truth, she realises when she thinks about it. She had wanted Howe to die like a dog, crawling before her; she had wanted Loghain to repent, _regret_ , put at least some of his horrible deeds right by proving that he was still the man her father spoke of as a hero. Her hatred for Loghain had always been inseparable from frustration and disappointment, tinged with the faintest touch of sadness.

She had borrowed his name in Highever, had dubbed herself the Hero of River Dane among wooden sword and skinned knees and the Landsmeet, her own words in that room, had left a trail of pain leading back inside her, through memories and childhood games.

Outside, there is a slight pause in the activity and when Elissa leans out to reach the open window, she notices that Loghain is glancing up at her, as though he has felt their attention. She meets his eyes, wondering for a moment rather stupidly if he has heard their conversation. Pulling the window shut, she breaks the gaze; from the other side of the desk, Cauthrien is watching her, too, and between them both, Elissa can feel her own skin heat up, prickling, _shivering_.

" _Right_." Elissa looks down at the mess on top of her desk again, trying to go over the last couple of days' worth of planning in her head after having returned her body and mind to the present situation. "You shall go to Highever with the knights. I doubt the teyrn's entourage is ready to depart already, however. I will inform him of the situation and he will be handling it from there."

Cauthrien inclines her head, ever so lightly. "Was that all, Commander?"

They are both moving towards the door as Elissa nods back at her.

"Yes. The darkspawn attacks are your priority, of course," Elissa says; she opens her voice to let the concern slip into it, which makes it soft and the tiniest bit unsteady. "But I want my brother safe, no matter what. I trust you to see to it."

Something softens in Cauthrien's expression as well, at that order. They have both stepped outside their own defences today and the understanding between them is a mutual, quiet one. A shared understanding, an acknowledgement of the other woman's temperament and disposition, making what they have admitted to each other in private all the more important.

"Understood."

"Good," Elissa says. "Thank you."

.

.

.

.

Most soldiers, Loghain concludes, are absolutely useless.

Not in an army, not where others can mitigate their failures and given mistakes, not where strength is counted in numbers and you can slip into the crowd of the ranks and disappear until you either die in battle or have learned to fight well enough. In the order of the Grey Wardens you have to be strong enough to save yourself straight from the beginning, in possession of the willpower and the physical endurance to withstand the transformation into the enemy.

The potential recruits today wouldn't be able to fight a bloody cat without failing.

He would lie if he said he regrets leaving the recruiting in Denerim to Hedin – for as long as the elf can still be of use – and then to Hawise who is said to arrive within a couple of days. It will be a welcome change of pace, regardless of their reasons for departing so quickly and in so small a group. And it will mean a nice absence from the insipid ranks of too-eager soldiers who cannot wait to embrace their demise during a Joining.

Having double-checked their provisions and supplies as well as the packs, Loghain makes his way downstairs.

In the drawing room, he finds that most of the other inhabitants of the estate have gathered, along with generous servings of food and ale. He enters and there's a pause in the noise of conversation as they turn to observe him.

Loghain has spent enough time with them now for this not to be considered out of the ordinary, he realises. Though he is still, without doubt, an unwanted guest in many ways, his presence is no longer a chill through the very air. As he steps into a room the conversation falters a little, resembling a candle before a brief gust of wind – a moment or two of hesitation, a head turned - and soon returns to the normal drone. It makes things simpler.

The Wardens are involved in a private discussion, it seems, voices low and indistinguishable; the loudest source of noise rises from Elissa and the teyrn who are debating something. Both of them look up as they see Loghain.

"There you are," Elissa greets him from the sofa by the window. "We were wondering if you would come down."

"Drink?" Fergus asks, holding up his own goblet as to illustrate his question.

Cauthrien seems to fall in surprisingly well with this company. He has never known her to be a very outgoing person nor particularly interested in social gatherings, but she does look at ease in her armchair, managing a mug of ale and a piece of dried fruit. When he looks at her she gives a brief flicker of a smile.

Loghain sits down in the sofa, nodding as a maid hurries forward to offer him a mug of ale.

"Anyway," Elissa turns back to her brother. "Stop bothering me."

"The teyrn is concerned about his sister's safety," Cauthrien informs Loghain, glancing at him over the rim of her mug.

"He doesn't _worry_. He is merely being patronising." Elissa downs the contents of her mug and holds it up, awaiting a refill, Loghain assumes. "His Grace is terribly conflicted about his sweet, unspoiled little sister getting into compromising situations out there on the road."

Fergus's face cracks up into a wide grin. "If your preserved maidenhood was indeed my worry, dear sister, it seems I am at least ten years too late, doesn't it? Your youth was nothing but an endless compromising situation, as I recall it."

"You can talk, I suppose." Elissa scoffs, leaning forward to grab a handful of grapes.

"I would suggest you bring a mage with you, at the very least," the teyrn argues, half-serious now. "A healer."

"There are not enough mages to _spare_." Elissa rolls her eyes. "But Wynne has refilled my assortment of potions and herbs, let me assure you."

"Your sister has spent the last two years taking care of herself in the wilds," Loghain says, not entirely sure why he has to say _anything_ in this ridiculous debate, but the irritating thread of the conversation – the implications and incredulous assumptions of it – jars in his head.

"Loghain's right, you know." Elissa gives Loghain a wry smile before glancing at the teyrn who sighs, and leans back in his chair. "And we have Dog."

"I cannot _believe_ you still call him that." Fergus shakes his head, his voice warm and teasing.

"Well, it _is_ his name."

"Oh, _certainly_."

"Is isn't his real name?" Cauthrien now, looking more at the teyrn than anyone else. Loghain is struck by the way her eyes take him in, noticing that Elissa, too, is aware of this. It is a rare thing to find in Cauthrien, such open display of interest in anything. Loghain can't help but wonder what has swayed her and feels a pang of irritation directed at Fergus Cousland.

" _Fergus_ -" Elissa warns, frowning.

Her plea is ignored.

"Ah, no, that is indeed not his name," the teyrn begins, folding his hands in a mock gesture of a bard telling stories by the fire. "Elissa had wanted a mabari since she was able to walk, more or less. I'm certain you can imagine how persistent she was in her attempts at persuasion."

Loghain has no problem imagining just that. Not only has he raised a stubborn child himself, but he has served long enough under Elissa to know the amount of determination it takes to go against her will. For Bryce it must have been utterly impossible.

"I got Dog when I was eight or nine years old," Elissa fills in, her voice a bit too sharp to sound as amused as her brother undoubtedly is. Loghain has the distinct impression he is putting on a show for Cauthrien, which irritates him even further.

"And what did you insist on calling him until father loudly forbade you to?" Fergus asks pointedly and unnecessarily, given his own eagerness to reveal the name.

" _Fine_ ," Elissa sighs, extending her gaze to all of them. Loghain can't recall any other occasion when the commander has looked embarrassed before, the way she does now, suddenly shifting uncomfortable in her seat. It seems an odd reason for it, considering. "I named him Maric. But he couldn't be called that, of course, so it became Dog."

Stifling a laugh, Loghain finishes his serving of ale while Cauthrien chuckles quietly into her mug and Fergus reaches out a hand to squeeze Elissa's shoulder.

"You were so in love with King Maric, do you remember? All those paintings you made of him, rescuing maidens that looked suspiciously like yourself," he ventures, still grinning. "The dashing King and the fat little raven."

"Andraste's sodding sword, I was a _child._ " Elissa narrows her eyes. "And he didn't _save_ me. We fought dragons."

"You were hardly the only one with those particular fantasies, at any rate." Loghain snorts, putting down his mug. He has definitely not forgotten dashing King Maric and the hordes of women – and quite a few men – who would embarrass themselves and their regent through all sorts of undignified displays of their devotion, at any given chance. For the first years after the rebellion and the years following Rowan's death, it had almost been uncanny, the adoring public sometimes forming a mob they had to escape.

"Indeed," Cauthrien adds, the corner of her mouths twitching as though she wants to say something more, but holds her tongue. She has, Loghain remembers, never displayed any warmer sentiments towards the king other than what duty demanded of her. In any conflict between Maric and himself that had somehow made its way outside the throne room, she had been firmly on Loghain's side, often to a rather awkward extent and with an alarming ferocity. Then again, Maric had not regarded Cauthrien as much of an asset, either, regardless of her efforts and achievements. They had always seemed to clash against each other.

The conversation dies out a little in a shared, faint amusement lingering between them. Loghain looks at Elissa who returns the gaze with an expression in her eyes that seems to land somewhere between exasperation and gratefulness. Loghain himself feels uncomfortably reminded of how _young_ she is, which is a knowledge that mingles badly with the reluctant and not very fatherly affection the brief story ignites. Yes, blame the _story_ , a sarcastic voice in his head remarks. Loghain firmly shuts out the thought and averts his eyes.

"Now, now," Fergus finishes the foray into their childhood arguments. "You are not going to pout about this, are you?"

"Pout?" Elissa shoots him a sudden smile, much brighter than any of the annoyed ones she has offered thus far tonight. "When have I _ever_ done such a thing as pout? I shall merely sit here and feel grateful I once managed to get my hands on those crumbled drafts you littered your bedchamber with. You know, when you courted Lady Catherine from afar. Ah, the sonnets you created. And the world will never know."

Loghain hides his own smile behind the refilled mug of ale, glancing over at the teyrn who clearly needs a moment to replace the horrified facial expression with a more sober one.

"When are you leaving tomorrow?" Cauthrien's sudden question is directed at Loghain, he understands, after a second of confusion. He is getting tired of forced domesticity, it frays his mind and wears down his already rather thin patience for small talk and social behaviour.

"As early as possible, I should think," Elissa answers in his place, putting down her mug on the table and snatching a dried fig.

"Yes," Loghain agrees. "How long will you be staying in the city?"

Fergus, straight-faced again and in command of his own voice, looks at Loghain.

"We should be going back to Highever well before Summerday, if everything goes as planned," he says.

"And _I_ should be going to bed." Elissa rises to her feet and after having said her goodbyes, she gives him a glance that usually means she wants to speak with him privately, so Loghain follows the procedure, only with less elaborate goodbyes.

They walk in silence up the stairs to the corridor where both their private chambers are situated and Loghain is about to speak when suddenly Dog catches up with them and there's a little turn in his thoughts, a slight flip of names and new knowledge at the sight of the dog running up to them, eager to see them both. Loghain leans down to scratch Dog's head.

"So," he says almost despite himself. "Maric?"

"Don't even..." She grunts a little, receiving an affectionate lick across the back of her hand as Dog notices her mood. "Why is it so _funny_?"

Since he has no wish to answer that he merely shakes his head, pretending to be involved in a conversation with the mabari. Maric the Mabari. At least the dog's namesake would have had a good laugh, had he known. Loghain can picture it all too well, can almost hear the sound of Maric's surprised amusement ripple through the room.

"What did you want to talk about?" Loghain asks instead, straightening up. Dog scampers off to bump his head into the door to Elissa's chambers, pushing it open.

"I just wanted to ask one more time if you reckon this is a bad idea that will have us both killed?"

"Well, we will have to wait and see," Loghain says before the irritated concern in her gaze makes him add: "But I would certainly say it is the most reasonable alternative. We should manage to stay unnoticed and keep off the main roads. Our concerns will be darkspawn and bandits, but that is not too cumbersome a prospect, is it?"

"No." Elissa looks at him for a while, a shade of surprise crossing her features before she smiles. "I suppose not. _Good_."

"I assume the reason for the inquiry is because _you_ think this is a bad idea?"

"Not at all, actually." Elissa steps out of the way as Dog comes back from his brief visit to the empty chambers. Her hand on the door drums slowly against the wood, fingers tapping into a rhythm as she speaks. "I have a feeling we might just survive this, too."

"Ever the optimist," Loghain says, dryly.

Despite the serious nature of their mission, he feels largely unburdened tonight, part of him relieved to go regardless of what their journey will mean or where it will take them. It has been almost a year and he still feels the same kind of conflicting impulses about the new fate, grim as it may be.

In many ways, it is freedom.

After the rebellion and ever since, he would look ahead and see himself in that war room, beside those fires, bent over the same maps for all the years to come, until death. And he would have done it and not have minded it because only utter fools mind duties they cannot forswear, but he still can't deny a vivid, poignant satisfaction at the recurring realisation that _duty_ can change, even if Loghain himself can't.

"Goodnight then," Elissa offers, half-way inside her chamber; her shape in the shadows still oddly distinct, as though he has become so used to it by now that it's a natural part of his memory. And it is, he admits.

It is there, a palpable mark in his long stretch of history, possibly the _only_ mark that isn't twisted and grey because of time and deeds. _She_ is there, deep under his defences by now – deeper than he imagines she would care to find out, a lot deeper than he would ever admit, especially to her.

"Goodnight," Loghain replies, shuffling his thoughts and readjusting them to at least _resemble_ said defences.

* * *

 


	22. Far from the maddening crowd

_The blood is the key. The blood is always the key._

**The Architect 's notes; Dragon Age: Awakening**  
  
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* * *

After all these months of managing and raising an army, living in tightly woven groups of people and having every breath measured against various scales of trust and mistrust, Loghain finds it downright enjoyable to be riding out of Denerim. They use the main roads for the first couple of days but quickly steer towards the less travelled paths in the forests and it seems that the further they get from the city, the lighter the air is.

Dog is thrilled to be out in the wilds, his paws barely skimming the ground as he launches himself in front of them, picking up trails and abandoning them just as quickly. Occasionally he looks at Elissa, as though awaiting approval for this frivolous behaviour.

They have reached beyond Hafter River and well into the northern border of the Bannorn before the darkspawn prove a forcible threat. All previous encounters have been small and brief, no worse than the occasional group of bandits or smugglers hiding out in the outskirts of the forests they ride through.

But today, after nearly a week's peace, they gallop straight into a battlefield in every sense of the word. From afar Loghain spots the unmistakable heavy plate templar armour, and feels the tug in his head, the darkspawn buzz in his blood; in front of him Elissa reins in her horse and throws a glance at Loghain over her shoulder.

He nods in response to the silent question.

The tempars – he counts four, at least that is the number of those left standing – are greatly outnumbered by a darkspawn flock made up almost entirely of hurlocks and shrieks but are doing fairly well, considering. Beneath him, Loghain feels the horse already beginning to protest against approaching the creatures and Elissa dismounts before he has time to suggest it.

"Guard the horses," she says sternly to Dog, catching him just as he is about to attract the enemies in his usual fashion by gathering them around him. The mabari inclines his head, obviously not satisfied. "Loghain, come on."

It's not a difficult battle and he holds no illusion that they are assisting the templars with anything they couldn't have accomplished themselves, in time. But he notices a fallen man in a pile of darkspawn corpses and the man wearing Knight-Commander armour seems to struggle in vain against a cluster of shrieks, relentlessly drawing back and forth in circles around him. Elissa reaches the spot first, her swords flurrying through the air as the Knight-Commander notices her.

"Stand down, girl!"

Elissa runs one of her swords through the head of a shriek and beats another over its head with the hilt of the other blade, pushing the remaining shrieks against Loghain. The fallen enemy nearly pulls the templar down with it.

"Don't waste mana-draining powers on shrieks, _man_ ," Elissa remarks, haughtily.

Stifling an amused snort, Loghain looks at the templar and is met with a gaze carrying a spark of recognition – there is scarcely anyone who doesn't know _him_ after all, bloody legend that he is – before he turns on his heel and resumes the battle.

Afterwards, as Loghain shakes darkspawn filth out of his gauntlets and Elissa bends over, trying to brush away twigs and leaves that have been clotted together with darkspawn blood in her hair, the Knight-Commander makes his way over to them. He carries his helmet in one hand and hoists his shield with the other, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Knight-Commander Harrith?" Elissa says, in a surprisingly pleasant tone when he is within earshot. "That is correct, is it not?"

The templar nods, a touch of satisfaction at being remembered distinctly marking his voice. "Indeed. And you are the Warden-Commander."

"I am."

"I beg your pardon but we did not recognise you, Commander. Nor you, Your-"

" _Loghain_."

"Loghain," the Warden-Commander repeats. "Of course."

"No harm done." Elissa _smiles_ , which makes Loghain wonder what she is playing at. "What brings you here? Chantry business?"

There's a moment of hesitation before the man nods. "In a way. _Ah_." He lowers his voice, looking around as though the trees would eavesdrop. "It is a matter of the Collective, so to speak."

"What kind of matter?" she asks.

Loghain is wondering about the readiness to share Chantry information and shifts a little where he stands, impatient, but Elissa makes a small gesture with her hand and he abstains from his question. Making people speak through coaxing or pleasant small talk has admittedly never been his forte. Maric, who became excellent at the gentle, inconspicuous form of manipulation over the years, would never let Loghain hear the end of it, claiming he abused his power if he so much as threatened a prisoner or a criminal into revealing the truth.

"We have learned that there is an unusual activity of magic in this area," the Knight-Commander says. "And recently we had a report – second-hand information, I might add – about a crazed apostate who is said to have been fleeing towards the mountains."

"Fleeing from the Chantry?" Loghain feels a chill down his spine and notices Elissa looks stiffer in her posture, as well.

The Knight-Commander looks nervously at Loghain who wants to snap that he hardly has the power to issue any punishments for ineffective templars not doing their sworn duty, but Elissa is quicker.

"Is this apostate a member of the Collective?"

"Yes, she is," the man says, his voice a shade more reserved now, as if he has reminded himself of Loghain's presence. "We have... a few friends here."

"Well." Elissa nods. "We shall help you look for her. We are headed the same way."

"I... ah." Now the man looks downright uncomfortable; Loghain wonders if he is dense enough to believe he could merely exchange information with a Warden-Commander without somehow being bound to agree to her terms afterwards. "Very well then."

"We ride behind you, Commander Harrith," she finishes the strangely short conversation and then brushes past them both and walks towards the horses. Loghain follows suit.

"I did a lot of work for the Mage's Collective during the Blight," she explains when they are riding at a walking-pace, waiting for the templars to assemble their things tend to their wounded. She looks at Loghain. "You do know of them, I assume."

"I do." He has been informed of them many years ago but always found them too independent and with too much of an agenda to serve his own purposes.

"Harrith has a, well... a mutually beneficial agreement with these mages."

"Of course he has," Loghain responds, dryly.

"You don't oppose the decision, do you?"

Loghain thinks it's a strange order of things to make decisions first and then ask for opinions, but that is indeed often how she works. When he is honest with himself he admits that is how _he_ operates, too. Except he usually doesn't ask for opinions. He shakes his head. "Not at the moment, no."

"Good."

.

.

.

.

It feels strange to have company again.

The templars stay in their part of camp and the Wardens stay in theirs, but even so, there are still more people and different sounds than yesterday. Elissa thinks it will never cease to fascinate her the way she shapes and reshapes her mind around the ever-changing rhythm of life.

This is the thing she first learned on the way from Highever: you fall into routines much sooner than you would ever believe. Rituals, small gestures or habits that suddenly appear out of nowhere but seem to always have been there, like the lines in your palm or the bones in your body. Things that, if asked about them, you would have to think about for a long time since they just appear, flowing out of you like breaths.

It's the fact that she wakes up to Dog's increasingly urgent reminders of _morning_ , morning _now_ , that she is bottomless in her hunger the moment she opens her eyes whereas most of her companions are not; it's the way they walk in and out of camp, washing up and getting dressed; it's the routines of armour, of buckling and tightening and the way her gaze has begun to roam over every piece of metal, checking it for damage. Its how she likes to take her baths in those hours following supper, as late as possible because there is something peaceful about nature when the sun has set and the water lies calm, unstirred.

Today she breaks her own habit entirely and slips out of camp in the reddish sunlight of the early morning, and gives herself time to swim for a while – a luxury with companions by the dozen, all waiting for you to return to camp so they, too, can wash themselves. During the Blight they had not cared, Elissa would bathe with Leliana and Wynne – which never failed to spur Zevran into authoring a detailed story for the fireplace later, making Alistair blush so hard he had to excuse himself and stomp off – and the growing army meant too many strangers to count, let alone hide from. The smaller the group, the greater the intrusion, she thinks, returning to her clothes and towel on the land.

She scrubs herself dry, dresses in a long tunic and leather boots and walks up from the lake as she begins the task of drying her hair. It already feels too long, which is the reason she has never cut it short in the first place. Short hair becomes a _hassle,_ demands attention and hair may be the most boring thing in all of Thedas to think about, let alone tend to. Considering the possibility of shaving it all off, she gets stuck in her methodical movements as the rough cloth of her towel runs over the hairline at the back of her neck. She frowns, feeling something thick and _sticky_ under her fingers, a little reminder of the battle yesterday. Wonderful.

"You have a large clot of blood there," Loghain says levelly behind her, as though on cue. Throwing him a quick glance she notices he carries a saddlebag over his right shoulder, and a mirror and a razor in his hands; by the look of things and the rather obvious lack of shirt, he is headed for the lake.

"Oh." Elissa turns around. For a second she feels like she has invaded his privacy – a privacy he would probably scorn her for believing you were allowed, at any rate – and as he meets her gaze there is a brief flicker of something before it closes itself again. "Could you get it out for me?

He takes the towel when she hands it to him but hesitates before taking a step closer and there is a look on his face, one she doesn't recall having seen before. She begins to regret the proposition entirely. But then she feels his hand at the back of her head, holding up her hair while he tends to the dried mess; as he pulls a few hairs along with the towel, dragging them up by the roots, she has to bite back the sound of pain.

"I have seen less filthy _beasts_ ," he mutters, his voice low. "You slept with this in your hair?"

"My apologies for engaging in the battle." Elissa folds her arms and leans forward as Loghain presses harder at the indissoluble clot. "I should have heeded my coiffure like a proper lady and let you fend off the enemies on your own - big, strong man that you are."

"Or you could have worn a helmet." Elissa doesn't have to look at him to know his lips are curled into a sarcastic smile. She knows, too, that not wearing a helmet is unusually idiotic, even for someone as stubborn as her. It's just that in the heat, and with the sporadic attacks, she tends to treasure the fresh air rather than the awful metal that limits her sight. Naturally she will not hear the end of it now. "This is impossible to scrub away."

"Shave it off then."

"I'm your general, not your barber," he replies, sounding impatient, as though she is stalling him. Which, she realises with a little stitch of guilty conscience, she probably _is_. He crouches down over the supplies he's left on the ground.

"I can do it myself." Elissa holds out a hand and waits for the blade but instead Loghain hangs on to it, beginning to scrape at her scalp. His left hand is draped over the back of her head once more, the calloused palm warm against her wet, lake-cold hair; with his right hand he uses the blade to yank softly at the very surface of her skin. It's a tickling, not too unpleasant sensation, and she is about to tell him when she involuntarily shifts a bit and the sharp edge scratches into her flesh for a second.

"Just be, _ah_ -" She grimaces.

"Hold still." Loghain is close; she can feel the heat of his body against her back, his scent and shape in the air around her. If she takes one small step, they will be skin-to-skin and that image, suddenly terribly vivid in her head, makes her suck in a deep gulp of air, moving a little again so that Loghain stills his hand, and sighs. "This hardly _hurts_."

It's not a question; it's a rather harsh statement and Elissa squares her shoulders and clenches her jaw.

"No," she says, truthfully.

"I would not have thought you squeamish." He continues; she can feel the spot he works at transform under the blade and berates herself for letting her mind wander as she wonders how he would feel under her own hands, how the shapes and boundaries of his body would compare to her own, their lines joined and parted, struggling against each other. "There you go," he adds a moment later, moving away from her and picking up his belongings.

Elissa lifts her hand to feel the result – it's a good thing Leliana is no longer around, because she would be horrified at the thought of having a shaved spot in the midst of one's hair. How unbecoming! Elissa smiles to herself. As she returns to the lake to get the remains of dirt off, properly this time, she notices that Loghain is crouching by the edge of the water and it takes her a second to notice the shaving mirror on the ground.

"That looks uncomfortable." She stands there, hands on hips, wondering briefly when he is going to snap at her and tell her to leave him alone. "Here, let me. A favour for a favour?"

Without waiting for a response she picks the up little mirror and holds it up in front of him. Loghain looks at her for a second, half-shrugging as though he's debating with himself before making up his mind. It seems there would be little to contemplate – she's held shaving mirrors for Alistair so many times she has lost count and she's about to point it out but closes her mouth again, remembering other things she also did with Alistair when they scampered off to bathe and that is not -

It is _not_ a good thought.

Loghain goes to fill a mug with water and returns, within seconds. There is, she notices when she stands before her and she can see him properly, a suggestion of unshaven stubble that shadows his face and makes his cheekbones stand out. Oddly enough, it removes a few years from him, defining his features. She wonders if his beard would be grizzled, just have streaks of silver like the small hairs around his temples, or if it would be mostly black as the hair on his chest. She wonders if his beard would be grey and if this is the reason he shaves. As her thoughts brush against the concept of his possible vanity she feels a jolt of something that is a shade deeper than mere affection or attraction, ghosting over the edges of something beyond it; a heavy sluggish twirl burying itself somewhere in her stomach.

Apart from lines and those dark circles under his eyes that appears when he sleeps too little or eats less than he ought to, he hasn't got a particularly old face. There's a taut quality to it, as though he isn't letting it age without his consent. Smiling faintly, she realises she can imagine it _exactly_ like that.

" _Yes_?" he raises an eyebrow as he rubs the sliver of soap between his wet fingers, applying its foam over his neck and jaw, over his cheek. The foam seems to almost melt in the heat, rays of sunlight welling up behind the trees, glittering in the tiny bubbles in Loghain's face. She has seen his face nearly every day for a year now, yet suddenly it looks different, its map subtly redrawn.

"What?" Elissa says, distracted.

Loghain tilts his head to the side, leaving the side of his neck completely exposed, the tense muscles and softly pulsating veins left bare. His fingers curl around the shaft of the razor, one slow stroke with the blade and then another, quicker one as he moves it up over his jaw; as he rinses, he shoots her a glance. "Did you want something?"

"No."

Elissa sighs; she has opened herself to this possibility and now she stands here, pulling at the threads of her composure while Loghain shaves, oblivious as ever. He is focused but appear relaxed; his hand is slow, the movements delicate and expert. Sword-hands, she thinks to herself, that's what he has. A second skin in his palms – hardened and capable - shaped to hold the hilt of a sword in an exact, perfectly measured way; the surfaces full of old scars and new, like a secret code-language. Elissa's hands are smaller and softer but she can already feel them thicken, the flesh knotting itself into a hard shield.

Loghain's fingertips seem to momentarily disappear into the foam under his chin and return glistening wet as his blade crosses the surface of his cheek. There's a rivulet of soap-water running over the back of his hand, dripping down on his chest as his hand moves. She watches it slowly vanish in the curls there, forcing her gaze upwards again.

"I think it's going to rain later today." Elissa clears her throat, nodding towards a mountain of clouds building up across the lake.

"Yes." Loghain responds, barely moving his lips to speak which makes the word sound muffled. If he had not been preoccupied, his answer would be accompanied by a sarcastic remark about her remarkably pointless choice of topic, she knows.

"Yes." Elissa echoes, but feels more like groaning at herself.

Desire – the kind of banal desire directed towards people and even places, foods, fantasies – is simple. Like hunger or thirst she knows how to approach it; she is far from inhibited, and greedy enough to indulge, _allow_ herself. But this, she thinks as Loghain rinses the knife in the mug of water and wipes it dry with a corner of the towel around his shoulders, this is not like that. There is nothing _simple_ about this feeling as is crashes into her, nothing containable at all.

She doesn't know what to make of it and she doesn't _like_ it.

"Done." His voice is right beside her all of a sudden, his hands reaching for the mug and the mirror and Elissa lets her grip of both loosen quickly and steps away.

She feels weary, _heavy_ , like her body is dragging her down and the soles of her feet are made of stone. And then she is suddenly angry. Angry with herself for being so silly, for not having more sense, for being a pathetic little girl infatuated with the childhood hero and angry with _him_ , because he won't know and somehow that idea is the most infuriating of all the ones flooding her head: that he has done this to her – somehow he must have, as she is no simpering maiden and she does _not_ lose her head - and will never know about it.

He is her general. He is Loghain Mac Tir and she is not a complete fool.

And she is _perfectly_ capable of self-restraint.

"I'll check on the horses," she snaps, turning on her heel, deciding it best to forget about this as soon as possible. By the time they ride off she will have forgotten it _completely_. "Hurry up."

"Very well," Loghain gives her a glance that seems confused or possibly annoyed, but Elissa doesn't stay long enough to find out.

.

.

.

.

Although a good two days' journey is still ahead of them before they will reach West Hill, it is possible to draw the conclusion that the area has not, in any sense, recovered from the Blight. While there are houses and signs of human life, the land lies bare, _burnt_ , as though it has exhausted itself to the point of completely shattering; it resembles Denerim those first days after she was allowed to walk out of the bedchamber.

Knight-Commander Harrith and his templars lead them to a farmstead that looks abandoned but as soon as they enter it, Elissa realises it can't be. The air inside is so thick with magic even she can feel it, almost expects it to drip off her hands as she unsheathes her swords in preparation for whatever awaits them. She imagines she can even feel the sharp irony smell of blood hanging over them.

"I hate mages," she mutters under her breath, directed towards nobody in particular. "They ought to be outlawed."

"You might want to associate with other templars if that is the case," Loghain retorts, a step behind as they walk, still led by said templars which at least feels somewhat reassuring.

But the house itself is empty, they conclude after a search; they search room after room for hidden passages or secret doors and find one, just as Elissa is about to call the whole mission a bluff and question Harrith's orders, she is the one who finds it behind a bookshelf.

As she presses her shoulder against it - never having been one for picking locks - the wood gives in with a surprising leniency that causes her to stumble down a narrow flight of stairs.

The spell – a jolt of energy - hits her before she has time to crawl to her feet, but it's an unfocused spell, sloppy, cast without aim as a measure of desperation rather than attack and Elissa stands despite the burning pain in her shoulder, looking around, her gaze grasping at the surroundings.

She stands in a cellar and in the corner of the next room – a small, cramped storage where only layer upon layer of spider's web and a few sacks of potatoes seem to be stored nowadays – Elissa spots the mage. It's a scrawny woman with a hollow face and hair that looks like tufts of grass, randomly torn off her head. When Elissa straightens up and the sensation of falling and being hurt subsides, she feels her blood respond to something in the cellar, call out in a swirl that is hot and thick and _searching_.

It's looking for the mage.

She is about to walk up to her as she hear the sounds of the others run down the stairs and before she has gathered herself after the slight injury, Loghain has brushed past her.

"Loghain, wait-"

He is already in the small chamber, his sword drawn but lowered immediately as he, too, must feel the same thing as Elissa feels. Behind them the templars are approaching, a clatter of metal against stone and the surge of voices – at the noise, the mage screams something inaudible and lashes out a surge of magic in the air; Elissa nearly gives in to the insane impulse to duck, but the spell isn't malevolent. It seem to snap itself in place among the other spells in the house, a shivering magical prison as protection against something.

"She's casting protection spells," Harrith confirms, just as she's about to point it out. "Blood magic."

"Is she using her own blood?" Elissa asks, kneeling beside the woman who – as their eyes meet – seem to wake up, as though she has been trapped in a torpor, something wrapped around her mind; her eyes clear up and her hand reaches for Elissa's. It looks scaly and animal-like, the skin is thick and scarred and the scent rising from it is familiar. Glancing at Loghain, Elissa knows he notices, too. Despite his disapproving expression, she takes the mage's hand. It seems to calm her.

"She must be," another templar interjects.

" _Blood_ ," the mage repeats. There is hardly anything human left in the voice, it slithers into the air, slices it open. "The blood... is the key."

"Are you a Warden?" Loghain asks, his voice steely.

"Wardens... no. They came for me."

"The Wardens came for you? Are you hiding from Wardens?"

"No... The others. And he is their _master_." The woman's eyes widen in terror. "I ran here. I did. But they came back from the underground. The ones who speak. They come for you."

Loghain and Elissa exchange a long glance, a silent conversation.

"She has consumed darkspawn blood," Elissa says eventually, still holding the woman's hand. It's rough in her grasp, but warm and the connection seems to offer a strange comfort, the roaring noise between them muffled by the touch. She can't say why, but she is oddly moved by the broken mage, familiarity and fearful prospects for the future tied together in a wish to protect her. "One way or the other. Can we take her with us?"

It's a question directed at everyone in the room and it's Harrith who gives his consent.

Taking turns, they manage to carry the mage out of the house and out to where the horses are waiting. At the sight of them the woman flinches, shaking her head. Elissa, still holding her like a child, is about to console her when Loghain steps forward and reaches for the woman.

"She rides with me," Loghain says in a voice that is closed to disagreement.

"I am fully capable of taking her on my horse, Loghain."

"Yes." He nods. "But she is riding with me."

Irritated but not inclined to argue in front of everyone, Elissa turns to the mage. "Go with him," she says, thinking that she's speaking to her as though she is Oren, stubborn and scared of ghouls in the bedchamber. "He is not dangerous. Do you understand? He wants to help you, too. He is like me."

Well, only slightly more disagreeable and a bit of an arse, she adds to herself.

"Come on," Loghain says, one hand already grabbing the reins.

"Hold her hand, at least." Elissa leads the mage towards his horse and steels her own voice as well; if he is going to be _condescending_ , she can damned well trump him. "That's an _order_."

That evening they make camp as soon as they have found a glade that looks suitable enough.

Having received Harrith's word that the mage's fate falls under the Wardens' duty given the special circumstances, Elissa returns to the ember-lit spot where Loghain is heating a potion for the mage. The templars are having supper by the larger fireplace in the middle of their camp, while Elissa and Loghain have set up their own, fit to temporarily nurse the woman they have brought with them without scaring her with too much noise and Chantry men.

Out in the open, she looks even worse.

Most of her skin is destroyed, resembling a darkspawn's and in the light of the fire and the moon that is reflecting down like bursts of rain through the thin clouds, it is plain to see the taint – it must be the taint – has began to creep up over the throat, reaching for her face.

"What is your name?" Elissa asks, slumping down beside the bedroll and deciding they have to start somewhere. "My name is Elissa."

There is a brief silence, as though the mage has to ponder the question.

"Eira," she says after a while. " _Eira_."

"Did the Wardens come for you, Eira? Did they bring you underground?"

"Y-yes." She nods. "I did not... they... they made me drink it. And he... he was so kind. Their master. He said I was brave."

"Who is the master?" Loghain takes the mug of healing potion and hands it to the mage. Elissa props her up from behind as she swallows small sip, followed by a more greedy one.

"The one who took my blood," she replies eventually, the frantic tone of her voice has a sharper edge now, a more urgent heat. "Then he raised him. He did, like a dragon! It wasn't... it wasn't meant to be like that. And he took everything. Everyone. All the people who waited. I waited... in the dark, but he never came for me."

The mage shakes her head, gives a low cry and buries her face in her hands, rocking back and forth. Over the hunched shape between them, Elissa meets Loghain's gaze.

"It was so dark. So very dark." The wail is low, like a dull hammer blow in the air. She repeats it over and over until suddenly cutting herself off.

"You were a prisoner, weren't you?" Elissa makes her own voice as soft as possible as she prods, gently, at the mage's incoherent ramblings. "They kept you underground. With the darkspawn. And you escaped."

Suddenly the mage turns slightly, holding on to Elissa's arm with a strength that seems unnatural even for someone who has been fed darkspawn blood. Her broken, dirty nails breaks the skin on Elissa's forearm, leaving bloody half-moons.

"You are different!" she cries. "You _died_."

Grimacing, Elissa reaches for something to clean her arm with. "I didn't die."

"No... no..." the mage shakes her head again. "Not like the ones who waited. They opened the stone for them."

"The passages to the Deep Roads?" Loghain looks at Elissa who nods. It does appear to be the logical explanation.

"Who killed those people? The ones who waited?" It truly _is_ like speaking to a terrified Oren, Elissa thinks, reminding herself once more to soften the contours of her own sounds, make them soft and light and not dangerous as the nameless, faceless monsters. "Was it the one they raised?"

"They raised it. He did it. Up it went... up, like a dragon." The mage lifts her hands again, scrambling in the dark air. " _From the bottom of the earth, from the edges of the sea_ -"

"The Archdemon?" Elissa interrupts, thinking they'd better stay away from chanting bloodmages tonight. "Did the Archdemon kill those people?"

"Yes... _yes_... he was meant to be different... but he was not."

"And you were there?" Loghain's voice is incredulous.

"How did you survive after you escaped?" Elissa asks.

"I ran... and there was sun again. And they waited for me, in the house."

"They? Other mages? Your friends?"

"Friends," the mage repeats, as though the word is foreign to her. "Perhaps... We lived there. But then they came. From the underground. They came again. The stone has been opened... they were seen. So I hid. I hid in the cellar."

"Are you talking about darkspawn?" Loghain stirs the fire, glancing at Elissa. "The darkspawn came for you again?"

"Yes, _yes_. You..." The woman dives for Elissa again, and grabs her wrist so harshly it causes a twisted pain in her entire arm. " _You_. You reek of it. Can't you hear it sing? It's... the song... it's in you, too. The blood. It's different now."

" _Stop_ that," Loghain shoves the mage's other hand away before it has reached Elissa's shoulder and there's a brief pause as he lets go of her and she looks at him for a long time, under her thick eyelashes.

"They will come... They are so many. And they talk. He made them like that."

"The one who took your blood?" Loghain asks. "He made them talk?"

"Yes."

Loghain sits back and the mage is looking at Elissa again.

"I was like you... " Now her eyes are clearer than before, the veil is gone and Elissa looks into them, meeting unfathomable sadness. It's the gaze of someone who grieves what she has seen, who has been driven to insanity with no hope of anything else. "But I was alone. I was... they came for me, and nobody... Poor girl..." she grabs her hand, and this time it's not to hurt or scare, this time it's intended as consolation, Elissa realises, and it leaves a lump in her throat. "So alone... you are all alone, like me."

"I will be fine." Elissa squeezes the mage's hand. "You don't have to worry about me."

"It's the blood." The other woman sounds regretful, as though she's apologising. A chill jolts through Elissa, landing in her chest where it settles, spreads, will grow into a persistent worry over the coming days, she knows. "It's always the blood."

Drooping her head and relaxing her grip of Elissa, the mage looks asleep for a moment. Elissa glances at Loghain, who is observing the tainted skin on the mage's arms.

"She is evidently dying of the darkspawn blood," he says.

"I think she is, yes." Elissa agrees. "Or she has been driven insane by something else. But there's nothing... it seems to be little we can do."

"Someone might have experimented on her," Loghain suggests, in a neutral tone. "Used her for research?"

"I... yes."

What better candidate for being dragged off underground than a apostate; someone without family and ties, someone who will not be missed? But who would make such a deliberate selection? Even if the talking darkspawn seem capable of somewhat advanced strategy and possibly have the independence to give and follow orders, Elissa wonders if they can truly _reason_.

"Make it stop," the mage whispers, suddenly. " _Please_. The noise. It... I can't shut it out. I don't want to be... not like that. The mages... they're gone. I ran to them. I wanted to tell, people must know. The stone can open and the monsters well out of it-"

"Hush," Elissa says. "We know. You can rest now, Eira."

"Rest... yes. _Draw... draw your last breath_ -" the mage opens her eyes again, searching for Elissa's gaze as she seems to search within herself for the words. And then there seems to be merely a vast _nothing_ left: nothing to add, nothing they can do for her, nothing more than death.

"Draw your last breath, my friends," Elissa fills in. "Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven."

With a soft sigh, the mage sinks back on the bedroll, closing her eyes and holding on to Elissa's hand.

"Loghain." Elissa lets her free hand rest over the other woman's forehead.

Loghain nods and unsheathes the dagger he keeps in his right boot, before he swiftly – and with chilling precision – buries it in the mage's chest.

They sit in silence for a long time after she has passed away, letting the night sink down over them.

Tomorrow they can talk.

The words and the thoughts and the implications all gather in Elissa's head, crowding everything else so she feels uncomfortably unaware of anything beyond _this_. It's cold, despite the heat from the fire and she folds her arms, hugging herself, as to keep the warmth inside her own body at least.

Then Loghain quietly places a hand on her shoulder and Elissa looks up, meets his gaze, and leans back into the touch, immensely grateful that he's there.

* * *


	23. Borders yet to be

The arling of West Hill is still mostly a ruin.

The landscape had been burnt during the Blight, the roads used by darkspawn forces; rumour had it the verges were crowded with corpses that spread enough plagues to kill any survivors. Arl Wulff had lost his heirs to the darkspawn and his gold to the civil war and Loghain rides through the small village that surrounds the enormous fortress, wondering what the odds are for being ambushed in the next grove. He almost misses the templars they parted ways with yesterday. They had been useful companions, but not even Elissa's most aggressive charisma had convinced them that they could have business to tend to in West Hill.

Loghain doesn't blame them.

Frankly, nobody has ever truly known what to _do_ with West Hill. It is too close to the borders, for one thing, and the mountain passages are difficult to defend and easy for enemies to take advantage of. In any war where the enemies come by boat or from Orlais, West Hill is bound to be the first spot to be attacked and the first spot to fall.

Many years ago Loghain had heard someone joke that the arling of West Hill had been intended as a punishment rather than an honour once the corsairs left the piece of land alone. Ever since, it has just been a ghost of an altogether different time, a hapless mass of stone and wood and a bulky piece of defence fit to defending nothing at all. When he was made advisor and commander of the king's army, Loghain had wanted to restore it, return the building to the crown and turn it into a look-out point; he had suggested they'd man the towers and use the fortress itself as a military supply storage but this had never been a particular well-received proposal, least of all among the arl's family who defended their inherited spot of land with a ferocity that seemed to verge on madness even for inbred nobles.

Loghain has spent the better part of today scouting the village for anything of interest, while Elissa has been visiting the Arl himself, discussing his vast spot of land and the collection of stone he governs over. She's returning across the field now; Dog perks up at the sight, straightening his posture and starts running towards her.

Maric the mabari, Loghain thinks to himself, as he watches the dog. It continues to amuses him.

"My brother or Alistair will have to _do_ something about this place," Elissa mutters as she pulls up her black horse next to Loghain's. "This doesn't serve anybody at the moment. Why hasn't it been rebuilt as the fortification it was meant to be? Even the battlements are bloody ruins."

Loghain can't help but smile to himself.

"Did Arl Wulff greet you with open arms?" he asks, commanding his horse silently to remain still.

"Not exactly, no. But we reached an understanding." She rakes a hand through her hair and crooks an eyebrow. "He will search through all the abandoned passages leading in and out of his fortress, looking for potential threats – I even promised him that a couple of Wardens would come and inspect the job in time."

"Promised or threatened?"

Elissa throws him a shrewd, quick glance. "It's a fine line, I would say."

"Well done, regardless." Loghain nods.

There is a brief moment when she looks surprised at his verdict, as though she had not expected a complimentary one or one at all, even.

"It's convenient to be a Cousland. Who would have thought."

"Yes," Loghain replies dryly. "It is fascinating how that works."

He, of course, had been promptly reduced to _Loghain_ and - more informally and without a doubt - _that sodding bastard_ the moment the chalice touched his lips. All the fear and respect he continues to instil afterwards comes down to reputation, not name and he can't say he dislikes this.

"Oh, and I told him it was a matter of discretion." Elissa makes a disbelieving little noise that sounds like a sigh. "Not that he will care much."

Loghain thinks of Gallhager Wulff as a surly idiot who believes honour and worth run in the blood and must be preserved. Who had opinions on everything and not nearly enough knowledge to support them, counting on name and manners to save him from doing things against his beliefs or will. The amount of work required to force – _convince_ , the Maric inside his thoughts reminds him – the nobility back in line once the rebels had taken back the throne still leaves Loghain quietly fuming.

"And he agreed gracefully?"

"Well, actually he did." Elissa gives him a look teetering between amusement and something darker, less pleasant. "I was the hero of the nation not one year ago, in case you have forgotten. People owe me favours."

"That is indeed heroic," Loghain retorts, looking away since the glare of the sun behind her is rendering him blind. "Riding around collecting them."

She laughs, the darkness seemingly gone from the sound of her voice. "I never said I was a very _good_ hero."

"Are we to be detained even longer in West Hill?" Loghain asks when they steer the horses back on the road, riding slowly through the afternoon. It's still warm and windless but behind the treetops there's thunder and rain brewing, by the look of things.

Ignoring his unconcealed sarcasm, Elissa shakes her head. "No, I think we should travel to Warden's Keep. If there is anything extraordinary happening here we should hear about it. What do _you_ think?"

They have spent a great deal of time – far too long, in his opinion - investigating this area now, spoken to people and established their presence without revealing anything of their purpose. It had been her suggestion, to make the Wardens a part of the landscape, letting people know they weren't just legends being celebrated in Denerim but a visible, _actual_ order of fighters made out of flesh and blood. She seems secure in the role of commander by now and knows the nobles' games as well as he does, so Loghain sees no reason not to trust her in this matter.

"I believe we have done what can be done for the time being." Loghain looks at her, noticing her face tightening a little, a shade of disappointment at their lack of success at tracking down the witch, he can tell without asking. "And I agree, we ought to make our way to this Warden base."

They pitch their camp inside an what appears to be an abandoned cave that evening, because of the increasing wind. Loghain watches Elissa get the better of her own discomfort as she throws out thick layers of dry last year's leaves and dead spiders along with their flimsy webs that get stuck in her hair, which causes the already grim expression on her face to harden into disgust.

"I don't need _help_ ," she grunts as Loghain takes a step too close, unloading the horses and carrying their bags to where she is.

"I wasn't offering any."

"Right." For a second she almost looks insulted, before pursing her lips and returning to her work.

"And I would also like to point out that I'm not _afraid_ of these... things," Elissa adds later as the horses have been tended to and rest under a pair of trees. Loghain walks up to the cave again, where she stands, making a jerky movement with her shoulder as a large spider strolls over it, running down her arm.

"Of course not." He drops the last saddlebags on the ground.

She makes a slightly irritated grimace, but smiles at the same time so Loghain supposes it evens out.

Mere moments before the rain hits them, they eat a newly caught and quickly prepared hare with a handful of vegetables they had managed to get hold of in a village they rode past yesterday. Elissa's status and the mention of Grey Wardens usually guarantee them a hot meal or a few gifts, should they chose to make their presence known. To most people they meet using the main roads, it is merely comforting to think of two Wardens roaming their lands at night while others, Loghain assumes, would send their soldiers or warhounds after them for trespassing.

In this - in living this way, making a separate world of themselves, and especially _here_ in these parts where all the misremembered deeds and men still walk around in the shadows of his mind – it reminds him of the last war. Certain evenings he feels like he has been travelling like this forever, others he imagines the years in Gwaren and Denerim are being washed off his hands like blood from battle and he is starting over again, without anything to his name.

Everything is different and yet somehow the same.

He'd sit like this in front of the campfires with Maric at first, then later with Rowan. Maric possessed little patience with merely sitting down and was, at least in the beginning, a bad strategist and as uninterested as he was unskilled in ways of the logistics of warfare. He would much rather spend time with the men in the army than with maps and strategy, slipping out of sight the moment Loghain would appear with his - or more often the Arl's – vellums.

When they had returned from their recruiting mission after all those months on the road, Loghain found Maric replaced by Rowan for the campfires. The two of them would sit late into the night and discuss battle or not say much at all; unlike Maric and most of the knights, Rowan had allowed him to be silent and she had also, without ever making a mention of it, understood what it was like to have to prove your own worth. Maric could afford a frivolous attitude the two of them could only dream about – or frown upon.

The fires he remembers most from that time are those he shared with her.

Loghain glances at Elissa. She is busy with their map of the Coastlands, crouched in front of the fire, in a position that seems terribly uncomfortable. But she is still young enough not to notice those things, he supposes.

If he scrambles through his memory he can find threads of words connected to her – or not to _her_ , exactly, but to _Bryce's daughter_ , the potential wife he never wanted. Rumour had it Bryce's youngest was plain and obstinate, but made up for it by being sensible. They said she lacked Elenor's good looks and Bryce's humility and that she was better at fighting than managing servants which had, as he recalls it, led Loghain to ask if they thought he needed a commander for his army or a teyrna for Gwaren. It had been the winning argument.

Elissa, the one he has become friends with over the past year, has a habit of flicking her fingers when she is immersed in something. Initially Loghain had found it profoundly irritating to hear that soft, rhythmical sound in his ears whenever they would sit down and plan a route or a battle, now he has come to expect it, thinks it part of the ritual itself. Thinks it a small detail to add to the rest of the things that constitutes their world.

And he wonders - but doesn't allow himself to dwell upon - when he begun to think of it as _their_ world.

Tonight the flicking noise comes irregularly, as though her concentration is waning.

"I can feel you staring at me," Elissa mumbles, supporting her chin in her hand and not looking up. "Do I have darkspawn entrails in my hair again?"

Loghain reaches for his saddle that he has left outside the entrance, moving it inside. One of the seams has come undone and he has nothing better to do so he might as well fix it tonight.

"Not that I can see," he replies, as the rich, sun-warm scent of leather fills the their cave.

It stills again, the air between them and the air outside that seems to be creeping downwards in a slow, stifling motion. The rain has stopped, leaving a dampness prickled with chilly stings as the night spreads into it. It's the stillness of night that makes it feel so long – during the rebellion, the slow periods of mostly waiting and planning, the knights would make unspoken and unofficial schedules to ensure they shared night watch with someone who could make it a little less dull. Unsurprisingly, Loghain was nobody's first choice.

"Do you play chess?" Elissa asks suddenly.

Loghain raises an eyebrow. "On occasion. Why?

"When we get to Gwaren we will buy a chess board," she announces, glancing at him over her shoulder. He is struggling with the task of slowly but surely forcing a slightly too thin needle through the thick leather and only nods, concentrating too hard to give anything but a hum in response. "I miss chess."

The tone of her voice is so bored, he has to snort. Loghain lets his fingers run over the leather as he sews, checking for loose ends or further damage at the same time. Now Elissa is the one who is watching him, and he can sense she wants to discuss something.

"Will it be strange to return to Gwaren, you think?"

"Yes," Loghain admits, without further ado. He has not set foot there since he left for Ostagar. Now, looking back, he thinks it had felt like a final departure, but decides that is merely a rationalization of a memory he otherwise cannot explain. Many of his departures from Gwaren had felt like that. He was always fleeing it. "I expect it to be."

They had tried to burn his former estate during the civil war and the rebellions that erupted because of it. Back in Denerim, Anora had informed him of the destruction – letting him know, specifically, that Celia's famous rose garden had been drowned in fire and ash - her voice tight and wounded and her faith in him forever exhausted. _What did you expect,_ _ **father**_ _?_

"Do you still know people there?" Elissa plays with a strand of hair with one hand, scratching Dog's belly with the other.

"What makes you think I _ever_ knew people there?" He sneers. "Do I strike you as a social butterfly?"

Elissa chuckles, a low and private little sound that he is not yet entirely accustomed to. He does, however, take pleasure in bringing it out of her – perhaps more than he would care to admit even to himself.

"No, but you were the teyrn. You were expected to entertain the nobility frequently."

"And you know perfectly well that those gatherings hardly form any friendships," Loghain retorts, frowning as the needle worms its way through the leather and lands on his calloused fingertip. "Besides, my wife was much better at it."

"When I was old enough to be expected to attend," Elissa says, obviously amused at the memory. "I would drink my mother's friends under the table. Or I would pick the most conceited man in the room and try to outsmart him in his own field of expertise."

"I can well imagine." Loghain gives a brief smile.

Elissa falls silent again as Loghain finishes mending the seam and proceeds to oil the leather. It quickly soaks up the liquid and is soon slipping soft and supple under his hands.

"I have never been to West Hill before," she says eventually, leaning back on her hands; as Loghain turns slightly to look at her, he can see that Dog is resting his head in her lap and snoring peacefully.

"Now you know that there is hardly anything here worth seeing."

"Well." She shrugs. "It's famous all the same. Or... infamous, I should say."

He sneers, a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. "Indeed it is."

"Can I ask you something?"

Loghain glances at her. "Yes?"

"How were you betrayed at West Hill?" Elissa declines her head a little, as though apologetic for her efficient bluntness even if he knows she isn't. There is no reason she should be. It serves her well. "I mean, I know the stories. But it was often implied and never actually confirmed how it happened."

"It was an Orlesian bard," Loghain says, simply. He has begun to find it increasingly difficult to respond to her frank questions in other ways that this: driving back parts of the truth but allowing the rest to slip out. Perhaps, he thinks, he even finds it liberating.

"Oh." She is quiet for a while, seemingly pondering how to continue.

"A rebel army is bound to be targeted by such foes, of course," he say, to simplify matters for her. "As we grew as a threat we began to expect infiltrators. But not enough, evidently."

She nods. "It took skill, I imagine, getting through the defences of an entire army."

Skill, or a prince who was still too unspoiled by the ways of war to distrust those who put on a good enough show, Loghain thinks darkly.

"We had no reason to believe she was a bard at first." Loghain finds the explanation so thin, so convoluted and naive when he offers it now. But it's the truth. In many ways they were all very young, still learning from their own mistakes. "It was very conveniently arranged for her. She gave us useful information, which inadvertently helped us take Gwaren."

"So she was disguised, I take it?"

"Yes. She – Katriel - played the part of a messenger send to inform us of the teyrn of Gwaren's demise."

"I see."

"Eventually she became... part of the group." Loghain looks at Elissa who nods again, her expression open and perceptive, _listening_. "You may find it was foolish to accept strangers so readily. But that was the way the rebels lived. You had to trust a person's word or the direction of her sword - or your own ability to outmanoeuvre the traitors. There were no guarantees for anything."

"There are no guarantees now either," she points out. "Or if there are, someone forgot to inform me."

"Fair enough." Loghain nods, remembering that Elissa has lived like that too, from day to day, entrusting strangers with both her own life and the fate of Ferelden.

She crosses her legs and gently puts Dog's sleeping head down on the ground beside her. "Did this bard lead you to believe there would be success at West Hill?"

Loghain still grimaces at the memory. He had been made commander by then, head of the entire rebel army and second only to Arl Rendon on the battlefield. As such, he shouldn't have let his own pride colour his judgement, wash over it so thoroughly. They were too conceited after their earlier advances, he thinks, too flushed with their own foolish ideals and hopes.

As it happened, he had left his own ideals at West Hill. When he met Rowan's eyes – all of her bone-hard desperation visible in that gaze, making no secret of the fact that she was _counting_ on him – he had abandoned all thoughts of the price of victory. From that moment forth, nothing had seemed too expensive, and all that remained was Maric. For better and for worse.

"She was leading us to our deaths, yes," he says, keeping his voice even. "The Orlesians knew about the attack. They knew where Maric was fighting too, aimed an ambush at him. If we had not left the army, they would have succeeded."

"That must have been..." her voice trails off. She brushes hair out of her face and gazes into the fire. "Did she die in the battle?"

"No. Katriel returned to us."

"Oh?" Elissa looks understandably surprised for a second. "Why? Because Maric lived?"

Loghain is quiet for a while, grateful to have work to occupy himself with while he thinks. These things, the events of the rebellion, have been pushed so far back in his history - altered at times and sometimes downright distorted to be able to contain themselves - that he has to make an effort remembering. The aftermath is there, in his mouth and chest, but the actual scenes all blur.

"I believe she had second thoughts." His thumb presses down hard on the curves of the saddle; the oil darkens the leather visibly even in this faint light. "About her mission, that is. I didn't think so then, however."

"When did you learn the truth?"

Again, Loghain has to force the memory out of a deep crack in his past, has to summon it before he can speak the words.

"Back in Gwaren," he says. "We had a couple of scouts tracking her as she left camp."

"We?"

"Rowan and I."

"Ah." Elissa looks down at the map, one finger absent-mindedly tracing the frayed edges of the scroll, up and down and around the coast of Amaranthine. Then, meeting his eyes once more she adds: "What became of the bard? Did Maric have her killed?"

"Yes" Loghain nods. "He did."

There is more to it, of course. Elissa of all people is clever enough to understand _that_ ; her eyes on him are tracing the surface of his truths, slipping deeper for a second but then she averts her gaze and he feels like he has been granted a respite.

"You should sleep," he says. "I will wake you in a couple of hours."

Later, as the fire has nearly died down, Loghain looks towards her bedroll where she is snoring quietly, encompassed by the Fade that is making every feature of her face heavy and slow. But even at the mercy of sleep, she still looks resolute and decidedly _present_ in her body, a very old young woman. Then she sighs and shifts position, flipping onto her back and within seconds the determined commander is smoothed out by the gentle blur of rest - properly this time; the taut curve of her mouth softens, her breathing grows deeper and the flicker under her skin seems to come to a halt. There is a defenceless intimacy to it, Loghain think, unable to avert his gaze and equally unable to pretend he doesn't feel it push against his own limits.

It has been too long. He is too bloody _old_ for this. Whatever lies past those limits is only a twisted sort of emotion, deformed after its long hibernation and unable to offer anyone anything – as though it _ever_ could.

There is simply no path leading there any more and it's just as well, he thinks, as he gets to his feet to gather more wood. Dog appears torn for a moment, caught between the ever-exciting prospect of the forest and the less exciting but fundamental task of guarding his master.

" _Stay_ ," Loghain orders, making the decision for him.

Dog agrees, quietly for once, and returns to the bedroll where he is promptly trying to squeeze himself into Elissa's embrace but ends up resting his head on her stomach.

Outside the air is thinner and crisper, but not yet easier to breathe.

.

.

.

.

Once they begin to make their way to Warden's Keep, it appears the weather is determined to be their main adversary. If it doesn't rain, the wind keeps them company and if they manage to travel almost a full day without any interruptions of early summer storms, they can almost count on finding themselves in the midst of something before nightfall. Today, they get caught in an approaching thunderstorm. Loghain is still leading them through these parts, seemingly familiar with all the small paths and crooks, which is good, but it will help very little considering they are wearing the wrong sort of armour for lightening and there's just so _much_ open field. Holding back a little surge of panic, Elissa presses on.

"Looks like a cave over there!" she shouts through the whipping wind, bowing her head.

"I know," Loghain returns, steering them in that direction just as the sky opens above them and the thunder cracks through the clouds. And there _is_ something resembling a cave not too far away, but between them and this spot lies a a muddy bit of field that mostly resembles a marsh.

To make it even worse, a noise rises from the thickets around the path

Because they are being startled by the ambush and the horses are only passably broken in when it comes to darkspawn battles, Elissa's gelding bucks, throwing her out of the saddle and down on the ground before it gallops to safety. Loghain manages to calm his own horse but has trouble keeping it still enough to be able to fight particularly well. After she has slid and slipped and _finally_ risen to her feet, Elissa receives a slash of a dagger across her cheek, and lets out an irritated moan. Dog picks up on the prospect of danger and throws himself headlong across the field, leaping to her rescue just as Loghain is forced to dismount and give up his bow for his sword.

For a long while they fight back-to-back, giving each other necessary support on the unstable ground, with Dog lashing out in attacks to finish what they cannot reach. Eventually Loghain buries his sword in the last hurlock, taking it with him as he falls down, slipping backwards.

He swears as he rises again, ineffectually scraping mud off his armour and looking over his shoulder for the horses.

"Let's get to the cave." Elissa struggles to her feet, catching hold of Dog in the slippery puddles. And then Loghain is right behind them, having gathered the horses and doing his best to sooth them while simultaneously forcing them to follow.

It takes a few minutes, but then they have all made it to the other side of the field, panting and cursing. Shaking off the worst outside the shelter, they still carry half the landscape with them inside, dropping leaves and mud everywhere and Elissa hisses a few crude words to herself as she empties her gauntlets of badly smelling slush.

As the thunder definitely breaks out, lightening flashing through the dark clouds and shaking the mountains, Elissa feels her own heartbeats calming inside her chest.

"Are you hurt?" she asks Loghain, using her hands to wring out her hair.

"No," he says, looking at her through the veil of earth-coloured hair that seems to have caught a few lumps of mud while he was killing the last darkspawn. His braids are soggy and plastered against his cheeks and even his eyebrows carry droplets of slough. It almost makes her laugh.

Loghain is so proud, so naturally dignified – even as he is forced by a united Landsmeet to surrender in front of a cocky Warden who is half his age, he does it with grace, Elissa knows, feeling a surge of those things she doesn't _think_ about – and here he is with mud in his hair and rain dripping off his nose and Elissa has to swallow a loud, defiant sound of amusement. But despite her very best intentions, she feels the corners of her mouth twitch, involuntarily moving upwards and just as she's about to mask it with a cough, she notices that he's half-smiling dryly back at her. In an unguarded moment before she gets hold of her thoughts, she thinks _Maker, I like that smile_ , thinks that it feels like a reward every time, thinks that she is being a fool again and almost rolls her eyes at the idiocy. Shaking her head at her own thoughts, she accidentally manages to squirt some mud at Loghain who wipes if off with the back of his hand, frowning.

And then they break into laughter. Because everything is so awful and because she has blood trickling down her cheek into her mouth and Loghain looks _ridiculous_ and the more Elissa thinks about how little reason they have for laughing, the more she finds the laughter overwhelming her entirely. It's a force of its own, travelling from the pit of her belly up through her lungs and heart and arms that she has to hold against her sides as it begins to _hurt_ , laughing like this.

They laugh for what seems to be an impossibly long time, and so hard that Dog stands stiff and concerned, watching them as though he expects them to be in mortal peril. And the sadness in _that_ – in her own mabari being so unused to hearing her laugh that he thinks of it as danger – also seem hysterically funny now that she's started.

"Andraste's _arse_ ," she manages, still giggling as she picks up a somewhat dry tunic from her bag, using it to clean her face and hands before handing it over to Loghain. "I have never felt more heroic in my life. I think I swallowed a bloody frog."

"I thought you looked very imposing crawling around in the mud," Loghain replies, his tone dry but jesting.

"Yes," Elissa leans back against the wall of the cave for a bit. "Now that I think about it, I want that pose for my statue."

Loghain snorts. He is leaning forward, still trying to rub off the worst with her tunic and Elissa wonders if he is as soaked as she is, feeling the gritty mud against her bare skin under the armour. At least the air is still warm.

It unsettles the walls she has carefully built up between them, sitting here unarmed like this. Elissa braces herself again. Loghain glances at her, something warmly amused still lingering in his gaze. It disappears gradually, as his usual reserve snaps back into place, Elissa notices, while they wait together for the lightening to stop flooding the landscape with light and the thunder to peter out. When it finally does, it actually feels like a relief to see the first hints of rain.

"I'm going to check on the horses," Loghain says, turning around to get to his feet.

Elissa straightens up, too.

"Hold on, you've got-"

"Yes?" He looks at her again, an impatient wrinkle forming on his forehead, as though he can't wait to get out. It makes her feel like that pathetic little girl with the crush again.

"-mud. Let me," she continues anyway, since she can't break off mid-sentence. And then, before she has time to reconsider the idea, she buries her hands in Loghain's thick, wet hair and spreads her fingers around the clot. It's slippery, of course, and when she's dragging it out of the tendrils of hair, her palm brushes over the nape of his neck, only briefly, but enough to nearly startle her, making her pull her hand back. Loghain looks at her, straight into her eyes, which is rendering her transparent and _useless_ for a second because she can't seem to look away. Then he does.

She holds out her hand, stupidly, showing him what she found.

"There you go," she says in that awfully _forced_ voice she has developed over these past two years. It's a voice to hide in and escape to. She drags herself into it now, closes it tightly around the words and her own smile.

Loghain merely nods, before he climbs out of the shelter and into the increasingly heavy beat of rain.

.

.

.

.

Riding up the steep road that leads to Warden's Keep, Elissa is grateful she has made friends with Levi and been allowed to come and go as she wishes. _Think of it as a place where you will always be welcome_ , he had said. Granted, that was long ago now and he probably didn't mean to say that she was always invited at any time of the day or for any particular reason. Since Levi is an ordinary man with ordinary habits, he had most likely assumed her visits would involve ale and a generous serving of food, not two smelly, dogged Wardens darting into his grounds, wanting to see the half-crazed, two-hundred-and-fifty-year old bloodmage.

She has a feeling they will need to remain here for a few days, paying the price for this visit in social interaction. Looking at Loghain beside her, she is glad she conveniently forgot to include that bit in her proposal to him.

But tonight they arrive under the cover of darkness and she steers them towards the tower, after having told the guards to please let Levi know that they are here and will tend to some Warden business immediately. It will buy them some time, she gathers. Enough time to find Avernus.

If he is still even _alive_.

"So your mage friend lives here?" Loghain asks as they have dismounted and are walking on the bridge between the keep and its tower.

"I think friend is the wrong word," Elissa says, remembering the army of ghosts that they had to fight here, the memories of Wardens that came before her, that fought and suffered and made sacrifices long before she was born. It had been easy to pass judgement last time she was here, standing by Alistair's side in the chaos, listening to Wynne's lecture on veils and demons. "He is – or was – potentially useful, however."

It is still easy to pass judgement. Any fool can do that. It is less simple to make decisions, the scale of them never constant.

"Dangerous?" Loghain steps over a skeletal shape on the stones beneath their feet. They seem to have left this entire area untouched, for fear of the man living in the tower, most likely. Levi and his family are no warriors.

"Of course. I said he was useful, did I not?"

They exchange a wry smile before Elissa reaches the door and pushes it open, not wasting any time on pointless ceremony or hesitation.

Inside, it is much like she remembers it. The smells of dust and damp stone, the old furniture and paintings, entire rooms still wearing the colours of ages past, of different people and different times that seem to collide with visitors, as though it unsettles the whole building.

"Ah, if it isn't the Commander," Avernus greets her from the landing leading up to his quarters. He looks exactly the same, perhaps a bit more hollowed out. She wonders with a reluctant little wince what he uses to keep himself alive these days.

"Indeed." She nods, curtly.

"How very long it has been. I expected you to return a little sooner. You expressed such avid interest in my research when we last met."

"I was delayed." Elissa looks around, almost surprised not to be greeted by demons and ghouls. "Darkspawn and politics. You know how it is, I suppose."

The old mage chuckles. "Yes, quite so."

"Can we come in?" she asks, but doesn't wait until he has stepped aside to proceed up the small flight of stairs. Avernus eyes her curiously with those slightly chilling eyes, digging into her very skull by the feel of it.

"You have changed your company," he says, as his gaze travels to Loghain.

"I have, yes."

"Yes. I heard the self-righteous lad who followed you around like a lovestruck maid has come up in the world. Unfortunate."

Deciding against a debate on the subject of regents, Elissa gestures towards Loghain. "This is Loghain, my general."

If Loghain is surprised to be in need of an introduction, he lets it pass unnoticed. His face is distant and neutral as he nods at Avernus who gives them both a long look.

"Morrigan did mention you," he says then, to Loghain, and his lips curl in a smile that Elissa can't interpret but that leaves her breathless for a moment.

"She's _here_?" Loghain's voice is steel.

Avernus gives a little shrug. "In a sense, yes. Indeed."

Then he turns on his heel, gesturing for Elissa and Loghain to follow suit as he walks deeper into the heart of the tower.

* * *

 


	24. A dark promise

**WARNING**

_This chapter deals with disturbing and possibly triggering themes; it contains secondary character death and non-graphic imagery of infant death._

* * *

  
  
_Nature dictates that the strong survive, if they have the will._

Morrigan

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.

.

.

"Where is she?" Elissa demands as they step into Avernus' research chambers. She remembers them very well – the only thing that is different is the lack of fade demons trying to ensnare her this time.

"Ah, so little patience," Avernus replies, rounding his desk and walking up to the bookshelf behind it where he remains standing for far too long, _fidgeting_ with what appears to be a journal, and Elissa can feel her blood rush in her head before he turns around again, meeting her gaze. "I suggest we start from the beginning."

"No." Loghain's disagreement comes without hesitation, without Elissa's consent although she can't pretend to have any protests to offer even if he had given her the opportunity.

"No?"

"We have travelled a long time to find her," Elissa says, impatiently. "There will be no long-winded explanation for anything. Take us to her. _Now_."

"I cannot do that, exactly." Avernus puts a large volume on his desk, his movements almost painfully lethargic in this situation and Elissa is a breath away from physically attacking him when he gives her a long, lingering glance.

"You said-"

"Where _is_ she?" Loghain urges, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Stepping closer to the old man, he looks like he isn't far from the line separating verbal from physical threats either.

"She is dead." Avernus says, finally. "They both are."

"Are we to believe that without other proof than your word?" Elissa eyes him as he reaches for his staff and begins shuffling a chair away from what, she notices now, is a hatch.

A swift movement of his arm later, it has opened and from it a bier-like construction rises, upon which Elissa can see what appears to be human bodies.

And it is.

The bodies that are spread out on in front of them are undoubtedly human. Milk-white and blood-red flashing in the faint candle light and that smell of death that seems oddly hollowed out, as though Avernus has done something to it, to prolong its stay, to keep them useful to him, no doubt. Elissa feels her stomach churn at the thought of his research, feels it recoil and tighten to a hard knot of nausea as she discerns the actual contours of the shapes laid out; the puzzle of limbs and features so disturbingly familiar.

 _Morrigan_. Bent and broken and twisted in a strange, chilling way. But still Morrigan.

Elissa flinches at the pattern of memory unfolding at the sight, the steady stream of words spoken and deeds done and those times when the two of them would share a laugh at Alistair's expense or Morrigan would roll her eyes at Wynne's sermons, sensing Elissa's reluctant amusement. As is runs through her, the merciless tide of remembrance, she's tightening her free hand into a fist behind her back in a quiet preparation to reach out and touch the corpses.

Loghain does it instead; before she has even begun to move he is striding forth and turning over the child-body with the same balanced neutrality he displays on the battlefield, looking for a moment as though he is checking for injuries and remaining pulse. He pauses for a brief moment at something, leans down to observe whatever it is he has seen from a closer angle. Then he shrugs, not wasting another second, before going over the same procedure with Morrigan.

She has never been more grateful for his capacity for utter coldness.

Take them away, Elissa says when he has been examining the corpses for quite some time. Or at least she _thinks_ she says it. But there is nothing rising from her, her entire being is mute, as though silenced; her throat is closed and then when she thinks she's _finally_ saying something it's Loghain who speaks, inching closer towards her with each word. She can feel his body close to her own, and when she looks at him – glad to have a reason to avert her eyes – she notices that his face is stiff like stone.

"This is morbid," he says. " _Enough_."

Avernus shrugs again, waving his hand to lower the table back into the trapdoor.

"Did you kill her?" Elissa demands, finding her voice.

"Do you think I could?" Avernus shoots her an irritatingly amused glance.

"Answer her question, mage." Loghain's tone is a harsh counterpoint, tearing at the layers of truth and lies and manipulation in this chamber.

"No," Avernus says, not taking his eyes off Elissa. "I did not kill her. Or the child."

"Then how did it happen?"

"Am I allowed to start at the beginning now?" he asks sarcastically.

Elissa inclines her head.

Around them, everything stills, awaiting his answer.

"I believe it began some months ago, as your friend - " he pauses, whether or not it's because he wants the stab of the word to sink in or because he honestly doesn't know if it's the correct term to use, Elissa can't tell, "your friend, Morrigan, came to see me."

He holds out a journal and waits for Elissa to take it. It's a thick volume, reminiscent of the one Elissa had taken from Flemeth's hut many months ago, as a spoil of something that had not been war exactly, and that had left a much bitterer afterglow. With almost reluctant curiosity, Elissa accepts it, letting her fingers turn over a few of the pages only to catch erratic writing, sketches and what appears to be formulas scattered across the sheets of paper.

"What is that?" Loghain asks, as he steps closer to the desk, obviously wanting to observe Avernus' doings.

"That would be Morrigan's journal."

Loghain looks at Elissa who nods, eventually, as the shape of the letters begins to look somewhat familiar to her eyes, even if most of what she has seen in Morrigan's handwriting before today have been brief notes and old recipes. The ghost of Morrigan is in here, certainly, the phrases and words her own, her acerbic irreverence present even in something as banal as a journal entry.

"It appears to be, yes." She straightens up, looking at the mage instead. "So Morrigan came to see you voluntarily? Do you want me to _believe_ that?"

Avernus shrugs. "Why not? If she had any questions, where did you think she would go? The Tower?"

The question spreads itself in the room, waiting for an answer Elissa can't give. Morrgian had never seemed to belong in the world at all. Her lack of bonds had always appeared perfectly natural since she was _apart_ , regardless of surroundings she was something else and as such she could have no one - it seems like a silly idea now that Elissa confronts it again.

"Let me rephrase that then." Her voice sounds much more secure than she feels. " _Why_ did she come to see you?"

Avernus paces the short length between his desk and the bookshelf, turning on his heel to look at them again.

"Well, she was in a precarious situation," he says, arching an eyebrow as he looks over at Loghain who nods grimly. "She sought my guidance."

"She thought you could help her?" Elissa snorts.

Avernus smiles. "Firstly, allow me to say that I am highly impressed with your decision, Commander."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed."

He _is_ honestly impressed, Elissa can tell by his way of looking at her. It is a realisation that creeps under her skin, prickles it with doubt and touch of dread as she recalls her last visit.

"There were three of us left," she says, in that secure tone, the one that sounds like steel. "She offered an increased chance of survival in the battle against the Archdemon."

"Yes, and why not?" Avernus agrees. "It kept you both alive, did it not? You can rebuild the order and the lad got the throne."

"Heart-warming as it is to have your approval, mage," Loghain cuts in, folding his arms over his chest. "We would prefer if you got to the point."

Avernus gives Loghain a scrutinizing glance, looks at him for a long time and Elissa cannot quite say what passes between them.

"I assume you were the other participant? Unless that kingly lad has hidden depths?"

Elissa feels the half-statement sink in. It has a taste of guilt and bile, of unwanted answers to her own questions - sometimes she has asked herself this, of course, but never allowed her own thoughts to complete, to finish themselves around a conclusion.

Would she have asked this of Alistair? _Could_ she have?

"Does it matter?" Loghain replies, as though he is answering her question, too.

"No," Avernus makes a dismissive gesture. "I was merely curious."

"Go on," Elissa says, sharply.

"I would almost envy you," Avernus says, ignoring Elissa; Loghain clenches his jaw, visibly struggling to keep himself composed. Elissa feels a flood of sympathy for him; if she was closer she would put a hand on his arm if he let her. Now she searches in vain for his gaze that he keeps firmly on the other man as though the only alternative to strangling him is staring at him. "But I know, of course, the nature of such rituals."

"Get to the _point_ ," Loghain snaps.

Elissa has been thumbing through the journal while talking, not paying attention to its contents but now her gaze falls upon the open pages.

 _If power comes not with freedom, but with ultimate slavery not only for me but for everyone else, is it worth it?_ There's a blotch of ink around the question-mark, a figure of something unfinished in the margin. Then Morrigan's hand-writing again: _What would these chains be forged from, I wonder? I do not wish to know._

"What did Morrigan want from you?" she asks, still looking at the page with the unanswered questions. "What assistance did you offer her?"

Avernus sits down behind his desk, at the very edge of the chair as though he is only resting for a second or is afraid to be attacked and therefore ready for flight. Perhaps that last thought is just her flattering herself, she realises, remembering that this man has held a tear in the Veil for countless years.

"She wanted to learn about the child she was carrying," he says, _finally_. "When she first arrived, she expressed some doubts about its nature. I believe neither her own experiences nor my research could erase that doubt."

Loghain and Elissa exchange a glance, standing on opposite sides of the desk now, like guards.

"It wasn't an Old God?" Elissa is the first of them to speak.

"I do not know yet."

"Then what is it?" Loghain steps closer to Avernus, something darkly threatening in his posture.

Avernus looks down at his desk, then up again, folding his hands in his lap. "It's a child," he says slowly. "It's a child carrying the essence of a non-earthly being in its body. That is all I know. The essence, however, is not simple to trace. It has proven to be... elusive."

The image of Morrigan with a deity – any deity – that she cannot fully control makes Elissa's heart curl itself up in fear. And yet, she reminds herself, this is what they agreed upon in Redcliffe. This is what Elissa condoned.

"She wanted my help to undo it," Avernus says then, to her surprise.

"Undo it?"

"Yes." He nods, to underline his agreement.

Elissa shakes her head, a feeling of being deceived running along her spine. "There is no way Morrigan would give up something that can make her so powerful."

"Tell me then, Commander, what power is?"

"What power is?" Elissa frowns, irritated at the man for conducting this conversation like a bloody tutorial, reminding her of sunny days in Highever when all she wanted was for Aldous to be done with the sermons, let her answer the questions and go out to the tantalizing sound of metal against metal and the scent of warm grass. "Power is power."

"And duty." Loghain says it evenly, simply.

"Power is duty?" Elissa turns to give him a questioning look.

"It hardly exists on its own." Loghain meets her gaze and there is a trace of something weary in him, an answer from a man who has a lifetime's experience of both power and duty.

"Bitter truths," Avernus says, nodding. "Quite correct, of course. Power does not come without personal sacrifice of some kind. Power necessitates actions. It is, in many aspects, the opposite of freedom."

"So you are saying that because power cannot be freedom, Morrigan would do this? Why? She would have an Old God at her disposal."

"It wouldn't necessarily be a God." Averus says. "And it would not necessarily be an asset. For hundreds and hundreds of years, mages and men have attempted to connect with the Old Gods, reach them, drag their essence up into our world. People have given their lives in the search for this. There are Grey Wardens who would sacrifice almost anything to learn about the secrets of the darkspawn and the Gods. A child like hers-"

"-would be sought by everyone, yes." Elissa feels a swirl of frustration. "But Morrigan would scarcely have raised it in _public_."

"If it was the least bit tainted, darkspawn would be able to find it all the same."

"She would be able to handle that."

"And the presence of an Old God would be felt thorough Thedas," Avernus adds. "Not only by darkspawn."

Elissa shakes her head. "Morrigan still wouldn't let that scare her."

"I agree," Loghain says. "It would be unlike her to fear such a thing."

"You certainly have a lot of faith in the idea of one mage alone against hordes of darkspawn," Avernus points out, dryly.

"I am more inclined to assume you have not been able to keep your mouth shut about this, mage." Loghain asks, coldly. "Isn't that so?"

Avernus looks at Elissa. "He is not terribly polite, your general."

"No." She looks straight into the old man's eyes, trying to mirror his own prying gaze. " _Answer_ him."

"There are things that cannot be kept secret for very long," he says evasively.

"How is that even possible for a man who lives locked up in here?" Elissa asks, already knowing _that_ is a matter for another day. She will not leave until the keep is thoroughly mapped.

"We can discuss that particular matter later," Avernus says after a while, giving her a sardonic smile. Even now she cannot truly tell he if wishes to help them or deceive them; perhaps he wishes to do both - or neither, perhaps it doesn't matter. "The point is that her knowledge of how to properly control this being she was going to give birth to was limited. If it became something beyond her control, it would be her master – or, more likely, her death. And if she could _not_ control it, what would that lead to? What damage would it cause?"

"And you mean to say it was not her plan all along to give birth to this?" Loghain sounds beyond sceptical.

"It was Flemeth's plan," Elissa reminds him.

"Her mother?" Avernus nods. "Yes. Yes, I believe there was a plan. Perhaps even a good one. Flemeth would not have left anything to chance."

Loghain looks like he hasn't followed the last few steps when Elissa meets his gaze.

"I killed Flemeth," she explains hastily.

"Of course you did," Loghain says after a brief moment's pause, and she can't tell if he sounds exasperated or impressed with her ability to end everything in death and wreckage.

"Morrigan had her reasons to want her dead," Elissa says, not intending to reveal those reasons.

"I doubt Morrigan herself knew all there was to this," Avernus points out in Elissa's place. "Flemeth would hardly have shared such powerful knowledge with her."

He looks tired, probably far from used to interacting for this long with anybody. His face is ashen and he sits down, properly this time, resting his back against the back of the chair. Loghain towers beside him, while Elissa leans over the desk, her weapons clashing against each other as she dips her head forward.

"How did she die?" she asks, slowly.

"I believe she goes into great detail in her journal," Avernus nods towards the volume Elissa is still clutching, her cold sweaty fingers against the worn, leather-bound softness. "But once she learned the nature of the Old Gods and the uncertain fate of her child, she made the decision to end it."

"End it?" Elissa feels her entire being protest against that absurdity – Morrigan, the stubborn, infuriatingly defiant apostate she had got to know, _was_ life. She was survival and an almost aggressive desire to live.

Avernus catches her doubt. "Ah, I can understand your hesitation, Commander. But believe me when I say that she was not keen on the idea to end her own life. Neither was I. She would have made a remarkable companion."

"Did you propose that?"

"A companionship?" He nods. "Certainly. She would have been magnificent."

"What a tempting offer that must have been," Loghain says dryly. "If she choose death."

"But _why_?" Elissa feels like she has lost track of reality, it keeps shifting shape in front of her eyes, the simplest things eluding her grasp while others, strange and oddly deformed half-truths are swallowing the bits of her past that connects her with Morrigan.

"Because she honestly believed that it wouldn't be worth it," Avernus says and he sounds like he is dropping his composure too, suddenly. There's a faint resemblance of a man in him, someone he once must have been before he fell into the cracks of the Warden ranks and got remade by duty and betrayal. "She didn't want to be bound to such a creature and she didn't trust me enough to allow me the power either. In the end, neither of us had the faintest idea of what source of power she would unleash. I would have liked to study it, of course, but she denied. The only thing she allowed me in return for my assistance was her remains. For research."

Again, the images from before flood Elissa's head, pounding at the bones in her chest until she feels out of breath.

"Did she kill the child, too?"

Avernus nods. "I opened the Veil for them. As she died, she used her powers to pull the soul of the child with her across the Fade."

Loghain leans against the wall, observing the mage. "Is that even possible?"

"It is. Normally the Veil is only letting the dying in, of course. But if there is someone to hold the tear of the fabric, it is, under certain circumstances, possible to manipulate the dimensions. At least long enough for a mage of Morrigan's calibre to do her part."

"So they are _gone_?" Elissa asks stupidly, straightening up so quickly the weapons on her back clash again, the sound of it echoing dully in her ears.

"As you could see for yourself, yes."

Just as Elissa is about to demand further explanations of the actual death, of the old gods and of everything else, she hears muffled voices outside the door. Avernus notices the same thing, raising an eyebrow.

"I believe that is a terrified servant who has been sent here on behalf of the masters of the keep," he says, not able to hide the contempt he holds for said masters.

Elissa has almost forgotten about Levi and his family. She glances at Loghain who nods. They should finish this now, consider it done for the moment being. The journal in her hands feels heavier than before as she finds herself walking towards the exit of the chamber, almost against her will.

Avernus follows them to the door where they entered, not that long ago – although it feels like a year has passed since they stepped inside.

"From what Morrigan told me, are quite the powerful presence, Commander," he says, looking at her. "Like Sophia. She, too, could inspire the bravest and most horrifying deeds in her men."

Elissa stifles a grimace.

"You're so _extraordinarily_ like her," Avernus says again, and there is a shroud of something genuine – a trace of grief, or regret - shining through his words, weighing them down. It's so intense Elissa feels like he is touching her, so she's shying away from his ghost-hands, bumping into Loghain instead.

"I'm not."

"It was not an insult."

"I'm _nothing_ like Sophia Dryden." Elissa says, stressing each word. "And you will do well to remember that I am not leaving the keep yet. Because before I do leave, I will have found out every scrap of information you may have, even if I have to _beat_ it out of you. You live at my mercy, old man."

Avernus chuckles quietly, as though she has just proven him right after all.

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Nothing, Loghain thinks later the same evening, can be a starker contrast to the disturbing bloodmage in his tower than this family of wholesome, unassuming people who are swarming around their guests in the halls, serving food and posing a hundred questions. They are humbled and proud, trying not to seem too eager as their ravenous glances fall on the Hero of Ferelden in their midst.

It is driving _him_ to the brink of utter fury, of course. He has never been a man made for social events that serve no political or strategical purpose. And he finds that it suits him even worse now, when he doesn't have to endure such fawning gatherings because of his title; he silences himself with food and a generous goblet of wine.

Beside him, Elissa is a calm, pleasant contrast to his glumness.

He is so used to thinking of her as a leader, a warrior and a strategist - things she was not born for, not raised to do but masters with a certainty he has seen in few others, if any. He is equally used to thinking of her blunt crudeness, her bloody awful manners and that almost ridiculous unwillingness to partake in social games and unimportant nonsense if she can avoid it. Seeing her here, like this, serves as a reminder that ought to be redundant after all this time together, but Loghain finds that it isn't, that her presence in this room tonight enlightens him of exactly how well she can master this game, too, if necessary.

It's the way she holds up, perfectly composed and equally pleasant to the Drydens as they soar around them, ready to burst with excitement. She is offering tales of the war, tales of the Blight; she is accounting for amusing events in Orlais and she is letting them pamper Dog with food and belly rubs until he is so full and sated he only gasps on the floor, draped over Loghain's feet. As the wine and the food flows, she asks questions of their lives, too, feigning interest and picking up on small details, spinning their mundane stories into something that at least resembles important events.

She is the teyrna tonight, reaching out to her lieges and freemen alike, and it is an impressive performance.

And because he knows the toll, knows perfectly well what this demands of her, he also notices the way her hands shake underneath the table, how her fingers dig into the side of her thigh to keep still.

Later, as they are meant to be sleeping after a long journey, a hot meal and a refreshing bath, Loghain finds her in the corridor outside their bedrooms, the same momentum slowly slipping away from her reach, shedding itself of her like a second skin.

It moves something inside him, seeing her like that.

Here in the corridor he notices that her right hand is bloodied and scraped, a rather bad and brand new graze running across her fingers and over her knuckles. It flashes furiously in the grey-blue light that seeps in from the small widows.

"Did you hit that wall?" he asks needlessly, because even from a distance he can see the trace of blood and crumbled old stone giving way, if only ever so slightly, to a Warden's infuriated strength. This place would have to be used to it, he gathers.

"Yes."

"Did it help?"

"Yes." Elissa purses her lips, glancing over her shoulder, straight at him. She's attempting a smile to wash away her weariness but it is far from successful. Instead she merely looks miserable. " _No_."

"You ought to get that cleaned up." He looks at her hand that has begun to shake despite her best efforts to hide it.

"Mmm," she answers, in a voice that tells him she is barely present in this world at the moment, that she in fact is only absent-mindedly paying any attention to it at all.

Loghain is irritated with himself because of the flush of sympathy he feels, watching her pitiful state; with a hoarse sigh he steers her, not particularly gently, towards his chambers. Elissa walks with him without speaking and allows him to more or less _place_ her on the sofa in his bedchamber.

He finds it wildly ironic that he ends up in these situations, playing the nurse to princes and lieutenants and warriors, when he doesn't know the first thing about either comfort or healing. Maric had always claimed he was very skilled at it, but Loghain had never believed him. There were things his old friend never got quite right, and Loghain's talents in various areas outside of the battlefields and war rooms were most definitely among those.

Loghain mutters a curse to himself as he rummages through his pack to find a half-empty bottle of brandy that he holds out for her.

"Here."

She accepts it, her hand curves around the neck of the bottle as he lets go, touching his for a moment. Her hands are unusually cold, he thinks, as though he would have a previous notion in his memory of the way her skin feels.

"Thank you," Elissa says, nodding.

After having fished out a small bundle of bandages, Loghain takes a seat beside her on the sofa, watching her drink a large gulp of brandy and exhale slowly. Wiping away a stray drop of liquid from the corner of her mouth, Elissa lets the bottle rest wedged between her legs. Loghain firmly averts his gaze.

A somewhat muggy warmth fills the chamber – a room that appears to have been unused for quite some time. Visitors in the area, and in this dreary old place in particular, ought to be few. In that, as well as in the dreary dampness of the reeking walls here, it reminds him of Gwaren. Cold, windy and inhospitable.

The silence in here is broken only by a flapping sound of moths who are escaping the night outside, drawn to the light as they slip inside his open window and continues their aimless flight up under the ceiling. They sit together for a while; Elissa drinks the brandy, passes it on to him occasionally and after a few rounds of that, the edges of today's discoveries blur around them.

Loghain stretches his legs and leans back, arms folded and eyes closed for a second.

It's not a child. That much he decided beforehand and seeing it has not changed his mind. The small body down there may be a collection of human-looking parts, all carrying Loghain's blood and bones, but it has never been a _child_. Unlike Anora or even the unborn, unnamed baby Celia miscarried that long winter when Anora was a couple of years old, this is not a part of him. It's an empty thing, a cavity in the world and the price for his – or Elissa's - continued, hard-won existence.

There is nothing to be said about this, he knows, as Elissa glances at him under a heavy air of exhaustion. There is no apology, no blame, nothing but their mutual understanding of what they did as a desperate answer to a desperate situation, leading up to a pragmatic solution.

And now it is definitely, irrevocably _done_ with. Finished. The relief hits him unexpectedly, almost guiltily for a second before he refuses that thread of thought to slither into his mind, shrugging it off.

"I'm relieved," Elissa says then, as so often tuned to the stream of his mind.

Loghain nods. "So am I."

"I doubt I ought to be." Her voice is low and somewhat bitter.

"Do you think _I_ will judge you for it?"

That draws a faint half-smile to her lips, and causes a little shift in her stiff posture. "I suppose not."

He watches her as she leans forward, looking at the empty bottle in her hand and spinning it in the air, like a magical staff or a toy. On her neck, that gentle curve just where the hairline fades into sun-touched skin, she carries a little bruise that spreads a soft darkness under her surface. A bit further down there's an old, nearly faded scar sliding down into the unexposed parts of her back and he looks away, feeling a wrinkle form on his forehead.

"She was your friend," Loghain says, eventually.

He remembers the marsh witch without any pleasantries or false illusions of her exterior hiding a better person. But there had been moments that night in Redcliffe – glimpses, even during that time spent in her bedchamber - when she had looked at him and he thought he could sense a familiar sort of self-contempt in her. Never long enough for him to actually believe in it, however. Nor had he believed in her sultry pretence of _desiring_ him. In the end they did their duties wordlessly and with their eyes closed and walking out of that room, he had known he was not the only one who felt the _filth_ of it on his skin.

There is a rather long pause before he sees Elissa nod, slowly. "Yes."

With a little groan, she puts down the bottle on the floor and reaches for the bandages beside her and begins to fumble with them, using her left hand. Loghain meets her gaze and spots a stubborn kind of edge in it, telling him silently not to bother her. So he doesn't. But when she is done cleaning and wrapping the wound and attempts to fasten the bandage properly and has to resort to using her mouth, he reaches out for her hand.

"I... can... do this," she mumbles through her teeth.

"Don't be ridiculous," he retorts, impatience making him sound harsher than he intends.

His fingers around the ends of the bandage wraps brush over her mouth as he takes over; Elissa frowns a little at the touch before relenting her hold and giving in to him. It feels strangely like a victory although he can't say why or even define _what_ inane battle they have been conducting.

"There," he announces curtly, having made a tight knot.

Elissa looks at him intently for a moment, then she shakes her head a little, looking away again.

"I take it you have not had time to read the journal yet?" Loghain asks, when she hasn't said anything in a long while. The room is growing colder as the night outside wraps itself tighter around them. By all sense and logic they ought to get some sleep.

"Not much, no. I'm saving it for tomorrow."

"It might be a sensible idea," Loghain agrees. "The walls will be better for it."

She sighs suddenly, turning on the sofa so she's facing him, pulling up her legs underneath her. Loghain shifts, resting his hands on his thighs and squaring his shoulders.

"I won't be able to have friends, will I? Not really?" she asks, and the absurdly honest question almost undoes him completely as she looks at him and he notices the little crack in her composure. While she recovers quickly, he can't seem to forget it, that long path leading straight inside her unguarded mind. It leaves her bare and it's nearly too much, he's too _tired_ for it tonight.

"You will." Loghain says, wondering if he believes himself. It was so long since he had one, so long since Maric still looked at him without that perpetually _wounded_ gaze that he has forgotten the unwritten laws.

Elissa smiles again, a faint half-smile. "Right."

He arches an eyebrow, trying to smile back. "As long as you are willing to sacrifice them for the good of Ferelden."

"Thedas," she reminds him, wryly.

Loghain only shrugs at that, not certain if he should count it as a slip of tongue or a confession and decides, too, that it no longer matters.

And then, after what appears to be an inner debate, Elissa puts her bandaged hand over his own, interlacing her fingers with his and squeezing them softly. There's a defiant resistance, hard and uncompromising, to the uncharacteristic gesture; it's a stubborn denial of terms she doesn't agree with but will have to accept – and _will_ accept, he knows – and somehow something relents in him at that. Something is crumbling slightly and he allows it, too sodding _tired_ to put up a resistance.

Elissa gets to her feet, smiling – a proper smile this time- as she nods towards the bottle and the remains of bandages on the sofa.

"Thank you, Loghain."

"Sleep well."

He watches her walk away and then he watches - long after she is gone - the space she has left in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written and originally posted way before we knew anything of the future fate of Morrigan. Like quite a few things in the story it doesn't fit the current canon.


	25. Where the lines overlap

_Vocabularies are crossing circles and loops._

_We are defined by the lines we choose to cross or to be confined by._

**A.S. Byatt**

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Morrigan's journal feels like the kind of fantastic tale Nan never allowed Elissa to read as a little girl. Those tales where knights on their fiery steeds never came, or worse: died gruesomely on the road. Tales that promised nothing because nothing can be promised, especially not to little girls in Highever who sit with their chubby faces pressed up again the windows, waiting for their chance to fly far, far away.

She had always loved the cruel sense of fate in those forbidden stories, had enjoyed the tears they brought to her eyes.

As a grown woman, Elissa would have preferred a different kind of tale. One that did not need to end in a murky old keep in northern Ferelden.

Huddled up in an armchair up in her bedchamber, she reads all morning and all forenoon, reads until first the servants and later Loghain come up to check on her. When she is prodded, she eats bread and a large chunk of cheese, then continues to read as voraciously as before.

As the sun begins to set, Loghain returns for the second time.

"Dog and I have been scouting the old passages all day," he says pointedly, standing in the doorway.

Elissa looks up, noticing he looks warm and sweaty which makes her momentarily confused until she casts a glance out the window and spots the still blue sky. A whole day has passed. Perhaps it ought to be considered a _good_ thing, after all. There are times, especially lately, when she doubts Thedas' ability to go on without her constant interference but evidently it _is_ still possible for the world to progress while Elissa is absent from it.

Loghain's mouth twists as he takes a step inside and leans against the wall.

"Oh?" When her scattered thoughts eventually fall back into place, she thinks he must be irritated that she has spent all day here, while he has been busy; she is about to offer a remark about it when he meets her gaze and there's no trace of irritation there. "I got a bit absorbed."

She holds up the journal and he snorts, amusedly.

"You don't say."

Her neck is taut, she realises as she's stretching out a bit in her seat, looking at him. Her entire body has closed around this one task for many hours now, forming a shield to allow her undisturbed concentration. Loghain dissolves it, swiftly. She probably ought to worry about this, she reminds herself before smiles at him.

"It appears all passages from this part of the keep are caved in and unusable," he continues, sitting down in an armchair at the opposite side of the room. "But there is one that leads out from the tower."

He sounds as unsurprised announcing this as Elissa feels hearing it. She nods, watching Loghain show Dog his empty hands to illustrate the lack of food. With a displeased groan, Dog proceeds to Elissa, giving her a pleading look. If he had eyelashes, she thinks, he would have fluttered them coyly now. She shakes her head. He begged a lot less before she left for Orlais, of this she is _certain_.

"Avernus had visitors, according to Morrigan's journal. Wardens, it appears."

"Wardens?" Loghain frowns.

"You can read for yourself. See if you understand it differently."

She gets to her feet, crossing the floor to give him the volume. It's not until she finally goes out of her temporary hibernation in the armchair that she notices how hungry she is and that she's still wearing nothing but the short tunic she has slept in. The last observation is made by Loghain as well, judging by his disapproving glare. Self-conscious all of a sudden she fights shy of standing too close to him as she's handing over the volume – he takes it quickly from her hands – and then she returns to her own side of the room again and sits down, palms curved over her knees.

Not waiting for Loghain to actually read the journal, Elissa clears her throat.

"I'm headed for the tower."

"Yes?" He lifts his gaze from the book.

"Alone," she clarifies.

"Is that wise?"

Elissa shrugs, spotting the unmistakable frown in Loghain's face that tells her he is doubting her idea to a much greater extent than he is ever going to admit. If she flatters herself – and him - she can pretend, at times, it is because he worries about her, but more often than not she concludes it has little to do with anything but Loghain's deep-rooted belief that he always knows best.

"Avernus has nothing to gain from killing me," she says, wondering briefly when she started measuring danger in this currency. "Unless you want to continue mapping the keep I'd suggest you get a meal and a bath."

Loghain lets his gaze linger on her for a second before nodding, rather curtly. "Bring Dog, at least," he says.

"No, he doesn't like the smell in th-"

"Bring Dog," Loghain repeats, all but glaring at her.

Not possessing the patience or the desire to waste more time today by having an argument, she rolls her eyes to herself and shrugs her defeat.

And Dog lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like a sigh.

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There is a smell of incense in the tower today, tickling Elissa's nostrils, landing somewhere at the back of her throat and making her entire mouth taste of wood and clove. At her side, Dog whines loudly; Elissa pats his head, ushering him inside the chamber where Avernus sits behind his desk, barely even looking up at their arrival.

"You come alone today, Commander," he says, levelly. She watches him place a quill on the spread pages of the book he is reading before snapping it shut and putting it aside. "Just as well."

"Is that so?" Elissa sits down opposite him, with Dog at her feet. "Will you be kind and complaisant and let me return to my other duties without putting us both through the whole trite ordeal of physical threats, then?"

Avernus chuckles. "You know, I am rather fond of you. Who would have thought the cowardly Couslands could bring forth such a fiery young woman."

The stab hurts a lot less than it would have, a year ago. That insight fills her with a peculiar kind of satisfaction mingled with grief, rising up into the air in here, among the scents and the paths between living and dead. She is no longer the last of Couslands. The castle stands again, as does her brother.

And Elissa has been cut out of the fabric of noble heritage and bloodlines, the name just a scar among many, fading with the years.

"Insulting my family might not be the best way to go about this," she says calmly, subduing the urge to raise her voice. She looks at Avernus and shakes off the irritation with a reminder to herself that it's pointless, that it will only steal more time from her. "I came for information. About the Wardens who visit you, among other things."

A moment passes when everything is still around them, the time beating softly against her lingering words and the memories of life in here, the mirror of the past held up for them all to reflect in.

"You went to Orlais." Avernus notes, and she is surprised until she reminds herself that this is also a man who has been alive since King Arland's reign. Fetching information can't be an impossible task for him, all things considered.

"How did you know?" she asks anyway.

"I have my sources."

"Tell me," she demands. "Explain your part in the Order."

One of his hands rest on the desk, pale and marked by old age but defying it at the same time, like the rest of him; almost carelessly he twirls a quill between his fingers, looking at it while he seems to ponder his answer. Elissa sits back and stares, too, at the strange little dance of the immensely worn feather.

"There have been disagreements in the Order for as long as I have been a Warden," Avernus says. "Back then, of course, we fought over political influence above all. Sophia, for example, did not see the Wardens as naturally separated from the nation they resided in."

"Well, she wanted to have the throne, didn't she?" Elissa crosses her legs, trying to recall the details of the documents - among them a handful of journal pages - she had managed to steal from this very keep many months ago. While the words themselves have vanished, the emotions filtered through them linger in her mind – the betrayal and pride and fury running so hot even on yellowed parchment that Elissa had been able to feel it.

"Perhaps." Avernus nods, a little chink in his voice. "But you would do well to remember that king Arland was a tyrant. He bled his lieges dry, plundered the nobility and starved his freemen. Should Wardens accept tyranny for the sake of neutrality?"

It's a leading question, of course, and one that is not easily answered yet Elissa finds herself nearly shaking her head.

"When we became outlaws in our own country, many Wardens left for Orlais." Avernus continues. "A fine way to make a statement about neutrality, marching into the open arms of the Imperial Court. But that is what they did. Those of us who remained fought alongside the banns and the arls."

"And then they laid siege to Soldier's Peak?" Elissa rubs her chin. "Trapping you in here?"

Avernus observes her, the quill in his hand resting on the closed book now. "Indeed. But this you already know, Commander."

She does, although the details seem far away. She wonders if they are for him, too; she wonders if they have petered out like her own memories of Highever that night, or the fight at Fort Drakon, or if they in fact grow stronger with time. Elissa scrutinises the room, then the man in front of her, trying to force these surroundings into her.

"What did you find when you opened the Veil?" she asks as a flicker of recollection brushes over a memory of the ghostly Avernus, tearing open the layers separating them from the Fade. He had looked so _determined_ , a man who knew what he was doing.

The Avernus who is here with her in this very room seems taken aback by the bluntness of the question, or possibly the abrupt turn of the conversation. She is so used to talking mostly to Loghain these days - and he is almost accustomed to her habits by now – so she allows a quiet moment for him to gather his thoughts and words.

"I found a power strong enough to be useful," he says, eventually. "A force. It is difficult to explain this, as it is difficult to explain magic to those who have never felt it in their bodies. But I found that my blood made the difference. I had used blood magic before, naturally."

"Well, naturally," she shrugs. In the old records Loghain has been digging deep into they have found Avernus' story. Sophia had spared his life and in black ink given an account of the benefits of recruiting among those waiting for the gallows. _The gratitude for such unexpected mercy is always bountiful._

"It truly is the finest, most difficult form of power one can master, Commander."

"I will have to take your word for it, I suppose," Elisse replies, dryly.

"Yes," he smiles thinly. "But at any rate, I found that being a Warden - having consumed darkspawn blood - set me apart from the ways I had learned. I had become something else, and as I opened the Veil using my own blood, I allowed entrance for a force like my own."

"Are you referring to darkspawn?"

"To this day, I do not know." Avernus gives her a little shrug. "I am still trying to study it."

"It was more powerful than you expected?"

"Oh, certainly." He inclines his head. "I was a young, proud man. I had not counted on anything to overpower me."

"But it did."

Avernus nods again.

Elissa finds it fascinating to look at the man in front of her, to imagine how impossibly old he is, what sort of inhuman life he has led for hundreds of years while still, she supposes, carrying around the man he once was. She imagines old age as a state of peace: the heart trudged past care, past bitterness to be humble and honest and treasure what it has, not what it never could have. She has imagined this as a fixed mark, a granted blessing. But she learns, in this chamber, that she has been in the wrong.

You are what you possess. You are what you master, what you do, but also – and this is perhaps the most important of all the things that define you – what you lost.

"You left Sophia to die." As she speaks the words, she realises it's not a question. "That's how the demon got hold of her, no?"

Avernus sits very still, not even blinking, before he grants her a reply.

"I... I did." He has never sounded older, or more human. "She was doomed long before, of course. It was her fate to die in that rebellion; she knew that. I knew that. Even so, I stood by her side as the last of the Wardens in our ranks fell." He shakes his head, in disbelief. "The King's forces against a dozen starved Wardens. And we thought the demons would help."

"And then you retreated in here?" She presses on. "Instead of wasting your own life, too. Because you found something that was more important than Sophia?"

"Either old age is making me soft, Commander, or you are as sharp as they come." His voice is full of deeply buried amusement, Elissa notices, amazed again at the way he is existing in bits and pieces that seem to shuffle around inside him, different ones surfacing every time.

"Oh, don't worry, it's the latter," she says, humourlessly.

"I escaped, yes." He looks around the dusky room, eyes travelling along the lines of books, the jars and vials and vellums piled everywhere; he is in all things a grotesque parody of a lord standing proudly before his spot of land, taking in its grandeur. "I have studied the forces ever since."

"You have had contact with the Order for all these years? Shared this with someone?"

He nods. "Briefly. There are fractions within the Order that study what I study. The connection between the darkspawn and the Wardens, that is. The very essence of what we are."

"I've understood as much, yes." Elissa shifts position and Dog stirs, too, still sniffing demonstratively as though he wishes to let it be known exactly how much he dislikes being here. She will have to give him treats tonight, she decides, letting down a hand to rub him behind his ears.

"There are visitors here at times," Avernus confirms. "As I am certain Morrigan has told you in her journal already. Wardens who are dedicated to their promises, whatever the cost and consequence."

"How charming."

"And you mean to say that _you_ are not one of those?" He arches an eyebrow.

"Well." Her face feels flushed. Last time she was in the keep she had – with Alistair's angry protests in her ears – made herself into a test subject, if only very briefly. It had tasted of death, reminiscent of the Joining, and afterwards she could – or thought she could – sense the darkspawn from a greater distance, predict their movements in battle and hear their non-coherent string of thoughts in a different way. She has not even thought of this since.

Avernus looks satisfied but speaks no further of the topic.

There is so much she would ask him if she knew she _could_. Urgent thoughts, old, half-forgotten matters and barely finished scraps of imagination float in her mind, crowding her thought but she can't let more than a small fraction of them slip here, and only very carefully.

"What do your visitors want from you?"

"Knowledge," he says, quickly, as though it is a question he hardly needs to ponder.

"They used to come for the tear, before it closed. Now they come seeking to learn about the source of power I once unleashed."

Elissa tugs at her lower lip, thoughtful. "And you give them that?"

"In exchange for stories of the outside world, yes." He gives her a long glance. "Tell me, are you familiar with the many fractions of our Order?"

"I know there _are_ fractions."

"I see," Avernus says. "Well, that is correct, of course. Within the Order there are Wardens who believe that the darkspawn ought to be defeated without a second thought, and then there are Wardens who believe that darkspawn can be... liberated from their nature. There are also those who seek autonomy for the Wardens, in all sorts of ways. Others, like me, want to research the bond we share, our changing nature. I do not necessarily take a stand in the conflicts, at least any longer."

"Have you encountered Wardens working for the darkspawn?" Elissa feels the question hesitate in her throat, a shivering doubt following it.

Avernus tilts his head, looking into her eyes. "Working for them? That indicates darkspawn who are capable of intelligence."

She nods, waiting to see his reaction. He makes a gesture with his hand, telling her to go on.

"We have found traces of old Tevinter magic in darkspawn caves. There is nothing we can say for certain but it appears... well, there are some indications that suggests that might be the case."

"Tevinter magic," he repeats, as though talking to himself. "Most curious."

"So you are not familiar with that?"

"I know there are Wardens who strive to domesticate the old powers beckoning the darkspawn," he says. "They wish to control the beasts by turning their own powers against them. I was not aware they had resorted to attempting to actually seek out the Old Gods. There are enough things beyond the Veil at our disposal, I see no point in endangering Thedas for the sake of old legends. But I am not surprised there have been Wardens working for a darkspawn, cause, no."

"Liberators of some kind?"

"Or Wardens who desire the power it could bring forth, uniting with a force like that. Something is changing in the Order," Avernus says, rising to his feet with some difficulty. "Even here, I can sense it. You have set a new course, Commander. You survived the fight with the Archdemon. That caused a stir."

"Is the ritual known?"

"Not widely, at any rate. But there are several Warden scholars who have mapped the various possibilities, or should I say speculations. Without proof there is little that can be established, however."

"And now I'm proof." A chill runs down her spine.

"Yes." Avernus stands with his back against her, looking at something in his bookshelf. After a while he turns around, nodding. "You are proof. Well, you and that taciturn general of yours."

"Should I be scared?"

"I would take heed when it comes to your fellow Wardens, Commander." Avernus folds his arms across his chest. "It did something to you, sharing the Archdemon's death. I can feel it. Chances are others can too. There are many who wish to profit from that, I imagine. Your blood alone would-" his voice trails off.

Echoes of someone else's voice seem to flood the room – _You are different! You died_! Elissa winces, trying not to let it show when she rises from her seat and walks up to him.

"There's more to it, isn't there?" she says, instead, sharpening her voice to cut out the rest of the stream of impressions and fears. "I don't think it's just about the Archdemon."

Avernus seems to consider her statement. He stands right next to her and for a fraction of a second Elissa is afraid he will attack her, or stun her or whatever a half-crazed mage is capable of doing, because his eyes are wide open and the intensity in them is terrifying. Dog growls, baring his teeth. Then a shadow passes over Avernus' features, and he steps back.

"You are correct," he says, looking away. "There are rumours stating that the divide in the ranks have reached as far as Weisshaupt, even. If there is truth in that, we stand before a time of great difficulties. The First Warden would not hesitate to wage a war in his own Order to ensure obedience."

"All the more important where we place our loyalties, then." Elissa feels cold, like her body has frozen in here and she longs for sunlight and warmth. To live an eternity like this - trapped in stone like a bloody dwarf. She shudders.

"Indeed." Avernus smiles, somewhat sarcastic.

Elissa takes a step towards him, which makes him retreat against the bookshelf, his smaller frame trapped by her own. She keeps one hand on the hilt of her sword, while her other hand grabs his wiry upper arm roughly. Avernus observes her, an expression torn between surprise and something else. It's not fear, she isn't ignorant enough to believe he would ever _fear_ her, but it's some form of understanding.

"You live at my mercy," Elissa says, her face so close to his own that she can feel his sour breath on her skin. "And should you forget that, I will find out."

She doesn't say how – Maker knows she doesn't _know_ how, it's a just a tired cliché she thought fitting – and he doesn't ask, but he nods and she releases her hold of him.

"Commander?" he calls, as she is at the door.

"Yes?"

"Be careful out there."

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After four days in the surprisingly endurable company of the Drydens, Elissa deems their stay over. The keep has been explored and their supplies replenished several times over – they are even offered new bridles for the horses – as they slowly make their way out of the grounds.

Loghain half-expects the horses to break under the strain of the brimful saddlebags and they do refrain from riding fast for the first day but that is more due to the scorching sun than anything else. Dog is panting before they have even reached the main road and Loghain feels his shirt like a second skin, soaked against his back as they pitch camp for the night. It's a quiet sort of day, they are too tired for anything but water, food and sleep.

The second day they lose the benefits of travelling through forests and are subjected to the unrelenting heat and hardships of breaching the small passages that are leading through the mountains surrounding Dragon's Peak. It has been long since Loghain led an expedition here, but the roads are indeed as passable as he had hoped for.

They make their camp by Drakon River – or what little taste of Drakon River that runs through this inhospitable landscape.

"We cannot hope for a better spot," he concludes, dismounting in a deep, wide ravine.

"This is fine," Elissa shrugs, reminding him again that she is one of the least difficult people he has ever travelled with. If he should suggest camping in a lair of ogres she would likely nod and make a fire. It might be one of her most likeable traits, he thinks to himself, watching her tend to the horses.

Even though they eat abundantly that night – and they do, Loghain can't quite remember ever having eaten this much by a campfire – the food supplies from the Drydens still look almost untouched.

After the meal they begin to make the camp ready for the night, habitually by now, moving around each other like shadows, as though they have always done just that. This is how it is; Loghain knows it well. You find yourself wound tightly together with the ones you travel with, whether you enjoy their company or not. And if you do, the bond grows even tighter. By the end of the rebellion, Maric, Rowan and himself had been almost symbiotic, sharing mind and body, hurting themselves as they hurt each other.

This particular routine is growing into him as well; he can feel it everywhere. If he goes to hunt, she has fed and watered the horses when he returns. If she chops wood for the fire, he knows he is cooking. And he has learned _her_ , as a companion and – although it feels odd to use the word even now – as a friend. He knows that her food tastes like bile. That she has only recently learned how to fish and still doesn't enjoy gutting them. She likes sweet flavours and fruit, she is an early riser and can easily go a day without food as long as she has a meal in the morning. She has begun to prefer open air to tents as of late. And on evenings like this one, as Elissa reaches for her saddlebag, Loghain begins to prepare the horses for the night, stepping out of her way; when she returns, her hair wet and her skin still damp, Loghain looks away, taking a second to compose himself around his own weaknesses.

The intimacy of travelling together has begun to wear him down in places.

Inside him, there are two separate tracks, two threads unfolding and spinning around his thoughts. One for what is reasonable and productive; one for his wants and desires. Normally – with only a few notable exceptions over the years – Loghain has had these _perfectly_ under his command, allowing each to exist, if only slightly and on his own terms.

He is a sensible, sober man.

It is only recently that he has felt things slip out of his hands.

It is only recently that he has watched it all spin too quickly, too erratically, both paths inside him running amok and twisting themselves around the fixed image of _her_ , beyond his control and outside of his defences.

Of course, even this foolishness has a mirror-memory in him, somewhere. A memory of campfires and travel-rhythms and clumsy affections followed by years of that held-back conviction that he could do _right_ by her, if only given a chance – because he thought, deep down, that he would never truly have it and it's so easy to be the better man when nobody is watching.

But he had been young then, more persevering and less selfish, more passionate about his own ideals. Or had he? They blur, the layers of time. And he finds that with the seasons tugging at his sleeve, his reserve dissolves with them, slowly and steadily.

The point of self-restraint seems to fade the older he gets, which, all things considered, is bitterly ironic. Nobody wants to watch an old man's lecherous advances; Loghain can think of few things that are as deeply undignified as _that_.

Yet here he is, scrambling at the sodding threads of sense and reason.

Elissa bends over her bedroll to adjust it on the ground, and as she's glancing up at him, he is rendered speechless for a moment by the observation that her chest is bare underneath the tunic and that he can discern the soft swelling of breasts where she's usually bound and battle-ready. Or the curve of her hips as she's rising to her feet again. Her neck, left bare by the shorter hair she returned home with. Her loud, unabashed laughter. Small, insignificant things, reminding him of nothing he did not already _know_.

Somehow it still stirs something, sets it into motion, unsettles a slow-moving feeling that is sinking low, lurching at the very bottom of him. She is oblivious to it, of course. As she _should_ be, he reminds himself, almost seething.

Loghain pokes the fire needlessly to keep his hands occupied.

Oh, Loghain, Maric teases in his head. Bryce's youngest? I never would have thought you the type.

I am full of surprises, Loghain snaps back, thinking a sure sign of impending insanity must be to engage the inner voices in a conversation. And I hardly intend to _act_ upon it.

And doesn't _that_ just make you feel even better?

It does, actually.

Not that Maric of all people would have understood.

Not that there _is_ anything to understand, Loghain corrects himself, biting back the irritated groan.

Nothing.

There _are,_ especially lately, moments when they slip in and out of their given roles, moments when the borders and boundaries on their map of companionship appear stretched out or even disappearing. And it happens that Loghain thinks to himself that those are the moments he would seek - if he had been a different man and his commander had been a different woman. And each time the thought forms itself in his mind, he immediately cuts it off, gives in to the other forces at work.

Vanity and pride, he thinks, all but sneering at himself. It should be impossible of course, to still nurse either of those things for a man who nearly drove his nation to ruin and who then was forced to admit his mistakes, while said nation watched, with contempt and badly suppressed satisfaction.

But he is nothing if not stubborn and he has so very few things left to protect these days.

Loghain is grateful that the next step in their unspoken routine for the evening grants him the solitude down by the stream. The water is cold and the air is still warm, and the quiet repose is unbroken and welcome. He sits there alone for a while, closes his eyes and waits for the sounds of the evening to drown the noise of his own thoughts.

Elissa has settled by the fire as he returns. She lies spread out on her bedroll, leaning back on her arms and watching the crackling dance of the flames in front of her with a surprisingly calm expression on her face. It's good, Loghain thinks to himself. Even if it is a fleeting moment of peace, she has certainly earned it.

Loghain picks up a chunk of cheese for Dog, before he joins her.

"You look glum." She gives him a sidelong glance. "Well, more so than usual."

"It is not intentional," he says, honestly.

"Good." She smiles, sitting up again and reaching for her swords that are glittering in the light from the fire. "I feared I would have to come up with various ways to cheer you up. And Maker knows _that_ would be a monumental task."

Loghain snorts. "I would say you do quite well."

He breaks off a piece of cheese and holds it out for Dog who accepts with a happy bark. Straightening up, Loghain realises that Elissa is looking at him, almost in disbelief, her face softening in a way that he can't recall having seen before. She seems to be about to say something, but remains quiet, picking up a cloth and one of her swords instead.

For a long time, they sit quiet together, as their habit has it. Loghain polishes his shield in a half-hearted manner, mostly to have something to do until it's late enough for sleep. Dog snores and flounders occasionally in his sleep, waking up for food at times, and Elissa is intently wrapped up in the cleaning of her greatsword that, Loghain notices from this angle, has a chip running from the hilt up towards the middle.

"When did you do that?"

"When did I do what?"

"When did your sword get chipped?" He nods towards it, as though she would be in need of clarification which sword he means.

Elissa puts it down, scratching the back of her neck in a gesture that indicates some sort of embarrassment. "Long ago," she admits. "I don't remember."

Loghain leans over it, slanting it slightly to get a better look, despite Elissa's sighs of protest. "Maker's breath, why haven't you replaced it?"

"I like this sword. It... it's _personal_." She lets a hand rest across the blade on the ground, protectively.

"Using a chipped sword for its emotional value runs counter to all sensibility."

"So I have a sentimental streak. News of the hour!" She sounds a little rebuked; he understands he might have found something that runs much deeper than she wants to acknowledge. "I carried the Highever shield with me all across Ferelden for a year, despite not using shields in battle."

"I hardly see how that is the same thing. Highever was your home. This is merely a sword." He shakes his head.

"I defeated the Archdemon with that sword," Elissa protests. "Tell me, how long did you walk around in your Orlesian armour?"

He is taken aback for a few seconds, which is enough for her to regain her ground. As she looks at him, triumphantly, Loghain has to admit she has a point - not that the Orlesian armour wasn't very good, because it was. Superior to most of its kind, definitely. Although he can't deny it served as a rather iconic and decidedly not pragmatic symbol as well.

"I replaced it, eventually," he says.

"It fell _apart_ ," she corrects, but the tone is warm and he finds that he really doesn't have much defence left against _that_ , so he shrugs and looks into the fire again. "But you're right. I will replace the sword when I find a better one. Is that acceptable to you, oh mighty general?"

"It is," he says curtly, suddenly irritated with her for bringing out his pompousness. And with himself for being such a tiring bloody fool.

But Elissa smiles, before Dog demands her attention, wanting to be patted and spoken to. She opens her arms for the mabari who nuzzles his head against her belly; Loghain dedicates himself to putting more wood on the fire, throwing glances their way.

They make a fine pair, the steely, good-hearted commander and Maric the mabari, who lacks dignity but makes up for it in loyalty. He barks something that rewards him with another hug, before Elissa lets him run off to check on the horses.

Elissa's hair has dried after the bath, a thick black helmet of it dancing in strange formations around her head, defying all attempts at being domesticated. There is something utterly disarming and strongly appealing about it, about _her:_ the sense of disinterest to her appearance, the distinct lack of coquettish manners and vain concerns, the strength required to shrug it off and trust in other things. It is, he thinks, remembering the verdicts back when she was a potential bride, the very opposite of plain. He's suddenly very tired. Very old and very tired and so _aware_ of everything, while she seems infuriatingly calm.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she looks at him again. "I'll take the second watch," she says in that light tone she uses when she is not entirely satisfied with something he says or does but doesn't feel like arguing about it.

Loghain nods, holding her gaze a little longer than he can defend to himself.

* * *


	26. Longer than the wrong road

_In the end, cold crows piece together_

_the night: a black map_

_I've come home – the way back_

_longer than the wrong road_

_long as a life_

**Black map – Bei Dao**

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It rains in Gwaren.

At first, as they ride down the mountain pass and up on the main road, it's a drizzle that eventually increases as the day goes by. Huddled together under the scant protection of a canvas fastened in a tree, they let the horses rest while Elissa hands Loghain bread and cheese from her pack.

"Lovely view," she says, nodding towards the wet, soggy fields ahead, vast areas of green and grey only interrupted by sprinklings of the kind of brushwood that threatens to swallow entire villages unless heavily maintained. It has always been a place in need of domestication, the land itself as barren and unfriendly as the stone surrounding it.

Loghain snorts. "Indeed."

Elissa gives him a sidelong glance, prodding quietly at his thoughts, but she says nothing else.

When they reach the outskirts of the town, the rain is accompanied by heavy wind from the sea and the damp, salty smell Loghain will always associate with this place.

He has not missed it.

Even so, it bears a distinct mark of _home_ that he feels now – a dull, heavy beat in his chest - as he enters the village gates by someone else's side, someone who has never been here, at that. They pull up their horses at the sight of a dozen knights far in the distance and as they approach, Elissa looks at him again.

"As long as it has warm baths and food, I am going to dub Gwaren a haven," she says, smiling.

"You certainly have modest demands," he says dryly.

And then the cluster of men is upon them, offering the sort of misplaced and disproportional welcome this place always seems to offer its heroes.

Loghain can't pretend he thinks he deserves it any more this time.

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The first two days after their arrival are frenzied.

The house they have been granted is a large freehold just outside the heavily populated parts, near the water and far enough from the mindless noise of the townspeople. Currently it is also, they learn, bustling with knights, soldiers and a handful of freemen who have heard the rumours and are willing to offer The Hero of Ferelden a helping hand. While the reconstruction of the once-impressive farm is well under way already, there is plenty of work to be done, not to mention the structural and strategical plans for the place that need to be developed, churned out. Even with everybody pulling their own weight the hours seem to disappear into a thick fog made up by the sheer _mass_ of it all. Loghain finds himself pulled into it, drowning in it, grateful for a chance to forget the _other_ Gwaren for even the briefest of moments.

He is left alone, to a much greater extent than he could have foreseen, not believing the cheap lie of Wardens being cleansed of their pasts as the chalice is passed on to them. There are sparks of recognition in strangers' faces, of course, and the knights eye him as though they wait for him to remember their names, or fates, or something equally impossible.

He does not.

If Loghain goes back into the memories of the past two years, there might even be one or two of them who have served directly under him, he thinks. He had stopped learning names during the Blight, had barely registered faces, found that it mattered very little who died on his command as Loghain himself breached all lines between reason and the utterly absurd.

After three days in the new headquarters, two lesser banns from the south arrive. And on the fifth day, most of Gwaren stands outside their growing headquarters, bringing gifts and promises of more manpower if needed. It takes them by surprise, the crowd that arrives as Loghain, Elissa and a few of the freemen surveys the grounds, measuring the spot intended for the stables yet to be built. Suddenly they are just _there_ and Loghain catches himself thinking that is scarcely a good testimonial to the security of their feeble gates.

"Commander," an elderly woman says, holding out a basket full of freshly baked bread and curtseying deeply as Elissa steps forward. "My _lady_."

Unladylike as always, the Warden-Commander wipes sweat off her forehead with a corner of her longshirt and rubs her palms on her trousers before accepting the gift.

"Thank you," she says, offering a polite smile.

"It was nothing, my lady."

In the silence that falls, Elissa appears confounded. Waiting for the realisation to unfold in her, Loghain supposes as he watches her put down the basket. She is their Hero. And these men and women do not expect her to parade about in her Blight armour or stand on a flight of stairs, waving and posing for statues and paintings. They expect her to save their lives, if necessary.

She was raised to do this - parts of it at any rate. But nobody can be raised to be a hero, he knows, and lets his gaze linger on her as the visitors scatter; perhaps this is the first time it strikes her, with full force, what sort of life she has created for herself now.

"It's too _crowded_ ," she admits under her breath that evening, as they share a table in the room that temporarily serves as their dining hall.

"At least you have your own bedchamber," Loghain reminds her, reaching for another cob of bread. They have made a thick onion soup from the vegetables already handed to them, and eat it with salted pork and generous servings of ale as the sun sets around their collective work. It's good food and a fine brew of ale that has a rich bitterness to it – a gift from the bann of Southron Hills.

"Right. I forgot about that." Elissa nods briefly, very much a commander in that moment, as a shade of something passes over her face. "It's first thing on my list to clear a room for you, I promise."

Loghain feels his lips curl in a smile. "Thank you."

They eat in silence for a while. Their table in the middle of the room is the figurative seat of honour, Loghain realises, observing the knights and the soldiers walk in circles around it, as though they assume they would not be welcome. Throwing Elissa a glance across the bowls of food, Loghain wonders if they are. She wears an expression here that he has not seen before, a different kind of composure that gives off the impression of having been sewn together by a slight insecurity regarding the new responsibilities and a genuine devotion to the same. He recognises it, having seen it in both Maric and Rowan. He had even seen it in himself.

"There was a pile of letters today." Elissa breaks the silence and finishes her pork by throwing it to Dog. "We should sort them out tonight."

Loghain nods. For the past days they have barely sat down together for anything other than meals and while he would rather not admit it as it comes with a flurry of unwanted associations, he has missed her company.

"Do you have time to give me the grand tour of Gwaren first?" she asks, as she empties her mug and looks over her shoulder, as though looking for more. She is probably doing just that, Loghain thinks with an inward smile. "I can't believe I have been here for days without having had the chance to leave these grounds."

"Considering the size of Gwaren, yes, I think we should manage," Loghain raises an eyebrow sarcastically, but refrains from making another disparaging comment about his former home. He doesn't say how much he wants to get _out_ of here, either, how strangely confining it feels to be among all these people and have their eyes on him, almost being able to feel the effect of their preconceived knowledge of him blending with the new images of Warden Loghain. A sensation of being studied, measured against previous incarnations of himself that leaves an oddly hollow taste in his mouth. Hardly anything has changed in him, of course. He is still the man who lined up the bodies of the people in Gwaren as feeble borders against the darkspawn and left them to bleed; he is still the man who sacrificed their beloved king on the battlefield and lost the war anyway, and he is - unchanging like stone - the man who has always ruled through force and intimidation because he has never found any other means at his disposal.

"Good," Elissa says, disrupting the glum chain of thoughts; her voice is crisp and clear and _young_ in his turmoil of old, stale sins. "I need fresh air."

Loghain inclines his head in a silent agreement to that.

It's when they slip out of the house and reach the outskirts of the grounds he realises how much he has missed not only her company but being alone with her, as well. She's walking quietly beside him, Dog in tow, and Loghain glances at them, feeling something soften inside him, coming to rest.

They quickly make their way through the familiar, rain-heavy landscape, past the path leading up to the teyrn's estate and down into the tightly populated area where all the commoners live, or more accurately, since Gwaren is a town of charcoal burners and fishermen, the area where most of its _population_ lives.

"Wardens," a young man greets them from a distance.

"Commander," a knight says, bowing as Elissa walks past. "Good evening to you, ser."

Elissa still looks vaguely uncomfortable with the attention, Loghain notices, as he leads them between the small hovels and larger houses until they stand outside the Chantry. He has assumed it is a building she would want to see, and when she shoots him a brief but content smile, he knows he was right.

Stepping inside, he notices that most windows have been replaced.

Like Loghain has already learned, Gwaren greets him with a flood of new faces and unfamiliar shapes. It's full of old houses with patchwork walls and badly mended roofs and on the narrow paths between one place and the other, Loghain sees men and women he has never seen before in his life. And there's a clumsy haste to all of it, to the pieces they have restored since the Blight ran them over and the way they are intended to fit in with what not even darkspawn hordes and civil war could erase. A patchwork of too many different wills and intentions.

"Good evening to you, Wardens." The Revered Mother smiles at them – it's not a woman Loghain has seen before in his life – as they walk past her. "Maker's blessings."

"And to you, Mother." Elissa inclines her head respectfully.

Loghain nods curtly, frowning at the sight of the Chantry's roof that appears to be barely holding up.

Celia would have had his head for that, had she been alive. Had he still held any power over this land. _His_ bloody teyrnir. But Gwaren was always hers, he thinks; it belonged to her, never to him.

When he had been gone for too long, Celia would take him down to the town – _insist_ on it, her voice clipped around the suggestion – and surround them with the people they were governing over. It was done without scathing remarks or accusations but it said mercilessly what she wanted to say: this is _your_ people. Unlike him, Celia had known them; she had been able to tell them apart.

Loghain could spend years waging wars against the bandits or strike down hard on corruption, he had reformed much of the archaic excuse for defence around the gates and improved the economy of the freeholders, but Celia was the one who had the loyalty of the freemen and the approval of the nobles because they _trusted_ her.

He doesn't blame them.

"That is a painting of your wife, isn't it?"

Elissa's question tears at the silence and for a second, Loghain is not certain he has heard her correctly, but when he sees the direction of her gaze, he understands. His commander stands beneath a large, framed painting of his dead wife who is beaming down on the Chantry from her position among the benefactors on the wall. _Teyrna Celia Mac Tir. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

"Yes."

"She was very beautiful."

"Yes," he replies, thinking it an unnecessary statement. Celia was the sort of woman who turned heads when she walked by and there is little else to say about _that_.

Elissa seems to see other things in the portrait, however, tilting her head to observe it more closely and watching it with a sort of closed-off expression on her face before shifting a bit and turning back to him.

"I see where Anora got her colouring," she says, half-smiling.

"You did not think it was from me then?" he asks, sarcastically.

"No, you are not quite vain enough to wear a wig. I _think_."

Only the raised eyebrows betray her even tone, Loghain realises and finds himself amused at his own capacity of forgetting that Elissa never fails to return any remark or dry joke he might throw her way. Most people do not reply, but she does. She replies to his attempts at humour the same way she responds to everything else – with those exact, measured steps between needling his pride and challenging his set ideas. And when she does cross the lines with unafraid steps mucking up the very ground beneath, he finds that he doesn't mind having his dignity prickled by her, after all.

If anything, it clears the air - scrapes it bare and leaves him lighter.

"Was the painting made after her death?"

Loghain nods. "It was. I doubt she would have approved of it being quite this gaudy."

"It's hardly worse than some of the others in here."

The ceremony for Celia had been large, organised by a much too young Anora and held in the frost of the late autumn; they had been standing down by the water, Loghain remembers, and he had felt, although it had seemed strange to him since he never truly made her a part of his life, how something began to fall apart that day. As though he had grieved not only for the woman who had been his wife, but also, selfishly, for a certain shift in his own existence – a solid ground, a form of momentum slipping out of his reach.

"I was in Denerim when she died." Loghain reaches for Dog who has spotted a mouse in the other end of the room and looks slightly _too_ eager to chase it, never mind furniture or burning candles. "It was Anora who had that painting made."

"I see," Elissa says, simply. If she wonders anything else, she doesn't let it slip even as they remain in the Chantry for a moment longer.

The night has fallen when they get outside again, and they take another road back. As they pass something worth pointing out, Loghain does so, dutifully even though they have begun to stride quickly in the chilly breeze with Dog half-running in front of them, scouting the terrain. Loghain observes a group of hunters head into the forest, adjusting their bows and quivers in the blue-grey light from the moon that breaks through the clouds. Beside him, Elissa is silent for a long time; when she has not said anything by the time they can see their farmstead from a distance, Loghain looks over his shoulder to check if she is still there.

"You lied about Gwaren," she says, as though proving her presence. And it's a strange thing to say so he frowns at her, almost expecting a laugh or an accusation. "It's not _dreadful_ ," she adds.

"Indeed." He steps over a briar bush reaching out of the ditch and stretching out towards the road.

"It's not." There's a wistful note in her voice, if only for a second, then she turns her head to look at him, smiling a little. "I love the smell of the sea, for one thing."

"You grew up with it."

"Yes." She rakes a hand through her hair, her eyes fastened on a faraway spot. "My father used to say that he loved the sea, but that it unfortunately comes with fishermen."

Loghain can't help but grin. Of course Bryce would have had the same issues. After the first year here in Gwaren, Loghain had already felt that if he never had to intervene in another fishing boat incident again in his life, it would be too soon.

"Highever bears many resemblances to this place," he agrees, as they are entering the gates to their Warden home, with Dog already leaping far ahead, headed for the horses by the look of things. They can't seem to break him of the habit of riling them up.

"And fishermen are always fishermen?" Elissa makes an amused face.

"They are at that."

Elissa greets the knights as they enter the building, rounding a group of soldiers who are resting on the stairs and giving them long looks when they walk past.

"I suppose teyrns are always teyrns, too," she says and chuckles a little.

"Indeed," Loghain replies, closing the door behind them.

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"Whoever gave us the honey-baked apples will receive special protection against the darkspawn," Elissa declares and sinks down on her chair by the desk they have to share, for the moment being.

"It was a woman from town," Loghain replies from the opposite side of the too-narrow table, not looking up from the stack of parchments he is leafing through. He sits stooped over his reading, his chin leaned into his hand. Occasionally he picks up a quill and writes a note in his own journal, then he puts it down again and continues reading. They have received their second batch of correspondence from Denerim this morning.

"Ah, yes."

She can scarcely believe it has been a fortnight since they arrived, can barely keep track of time at all this season, it seems. They have so much to do that the days fall about each other in a great blur and the only constant thing is this – their _rhythm_ , their pattern of Loghain in his chair, and she in hers while the letters arrive and the orders go out and the sky shifts colour outside their window.

Loghain shuffles the papers, scratching the back of his neck absent-mindedly.

He is lost in concentration and Elissa smiles to herself, thinking he wouldn't notice even her most obvious staring at this very moment. For a second she gives herself permission, allows herself the pleasure of letting her eyes wander over him where he sits, taking him in. His face, serious and unaware, a tint of summer on his forehead and cheeks, made light-brown by the time spent outdoors. His arms in the thin linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up in the heat; the veins on his forearms laid bare and almost _impossible_ not to trace with a light fingertip brushing over the blood in them, trailing the path to his heart and, well -

She draws a sharp breath.

Loghain glances up at her, suddenly. "What?"

"Hedin has sent four new Wardens here," Elissa says, stupidly, grabbing hold of the letter in front of her. She has yet to finish reading it, but as her eyes skim over the cramped handwriting she can conclude that at least her blurted statement is true. Hedin and Hawise have recruited ten Wardens and four are being stationed in Gwaren.

"That's good news," Loghain comments, evenly. He doesn't make any remark about his own letters, which digs deep into her reserve of self-restraint as she refrains from leaning over the desk trying to have a look.

Looking at the letter in her hand instead, Elissa reads it in its entirety.

"He is headed for the Deep Roads," she says when she has finished it, all previous gaiety fading away to give room for something much darker in her. " _Now_. I mean, he is probably already on his way there."

That makes Loghain put down his quill and look at her, at least. Elissa leans back in her seat, tugging at her lower lip. It beats heavily in her chest, the new knowledge of Hedin's fate, not because it is unexpected or even because she cares a great deal about him – she has remained fairly indifferent to him, their relationship impersonal and polite – but because it drags with it a reminder of the future. This is their fate. His death is their deaths.

"It will bring him peace," Loghain says after a while, sounding neutral.

"I suppose it will, yes."

He catches her gaze over the table, holds it for a long while, as though he is trying to interpret something unspoken. Elissa smiles faintly.

"Strange to think of it, though," she says, flicking invisible dust from the sleeve of her tunic to have something to do. "I knew it was approaching but not that it was this close."

Loghain looks thoughtful, folding up a letter and putting it neatly on top of one he has already read and - she assumes - replied to. When he reaches for the inkpot Elissa notices he has ink stains on his skin and unthinkingly she stills his movement with her hand over his arm. He pauses, looking strangely at her. For a second, as the surprise wears off, she is even able to flatter herself enough to think that he seems _unnerved_.

"You have ink there." Elissa presses her thumb to a stain, to underline her point.

He looks at his arm, then at the desk, searching for a handkerchief or a towel or anything else they do not keep around the office. Elissa finds a clean bandage on a pile of books on the floor – and like her mother used to do when Fergus or Elissa had scraped their knees and needed care, she wets it, using her tongue.

Loghain says nothing as she hands him the thin cloth; he takes it from her hand and their fingers meet briefly, his are warm as always, hers feel almost sweaty despite being cold.

She straightens up, pretending to go back to reading while he cleans up the ink.

"Time is a strange thing to measure," he says as they are settled again. She is grateful he picks up the conversation, making no mention of any foolishness on her part. "All the more so if you risk your life every day."

Elissa nods. "I wonder if any Warden expects to last the time we're given before the taint takes us. It seems incredible to me. To be this lucky for so long, I mean. I hardly expect to be alive in thirty years."

"Neither do I." He says it with a wry little grin but it stings in her, the truth behind the words, the way his face seem to relax a bit as he makes a comment like this: a casual remark or a joke intended for her. Small details reflecting back on all those other things he is, besides the cold principles and ruthless pragmatism he has build his life around; the shreds of goodness in him, of humour and dedication and ideals. And how he becomes a different man in the tiniest, almost indiscernible fractions of those moments when he lets his guard down.

The fluttering, disarming way these moments float into her, as though this is their intention.

She wishes she held up better. That her walls were higher, that they were stronger, thicker. Or rather that she had no such barriers at all and was a different kind of woman, the kind men could look at and _understand_. A simpler sort, warmer and more open. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she wishes she was transparent.

Not that it would matter, not to _Loghain_. To him, she is that fixed mark in his recollection – the commander, the Cousland girl, Bryce's youngest, possibly his friend lately. Elissa sighs heavily. The ridiculous notion in longing for something that only exists in her head makes her almost hate him for a moment, yet that is precisely what she does.

She longs for him.

She longs for someone, _something_ to rip apart her solitude and touch her, remind her of what it is like being skin-to-skin and completely, defencelessly _raw_ with another being; she wants to be human again before she forgets how, before the heroic posturing traps her in her own body. Easier said than done, to grant such a foolish desire to someone like her, who doesn't know how to care for others or how to let others care for her; all she knows is how to protect herself against it, how to enclose and defend. And now she wants _out_.

It is going to be too late very early in her life - the dangerous drumming in her blood will see to that even if she can escape the swords and daggers – and she wants someone to breach the distances she puts between herself and the world, long before that. Shake her up, wreck her defence apart and be worth the risk and the pain.

And she thinks, now that they have grown into each other in this rather blatant way, that it would have to be someone like _him_.

Which is so _ridiculous_ a thought that it makes her cheeks flare up in protest.

"Just... kindly inform me when you start to feel the Calling," she says, clumsy and warm and awkward, her leg bumping into the desk as she rises to her feet.

"Yes." There's a wrinkle forming on Loghain's forehead as he glances at her. "I have no intention of keeping it a secret."

"Yes," she repeats, feeling like an idiot. "Good."

She has the distinct impression of being _watched_ as she retreats from the office – her own office, no less, because she is such a dignified commander at present – and it makes her clench her teeth even harder around a frustrated groan.

A large goblet of wine, she thinks calmingly to herself as she strides down the corridor. A large goblet of wine and a bath. That will do nicely. Or rather, that will _have_ to do nicely.

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The chess board, when it arrives, swiftly forms a new routine in the Warden headquarters. No matter what the day has involved, it ends in Elissa's chambers where the Warden-Commander and Loghain continue their ongoing, never-ending game of chess.

They come up with assorted pretexts of course, for reasons he neither can nor want to reveal to himself. As though the pretexts alone would not be suspicious, the Maric-voice in his head sometimes remarks, as Loghain heads for the commander's chambers. Why would a general and a commander need those lies?

But they do or think they do.

The truth is that they play chess.

It's a quiet, undisturbed moment outside of the rest of their lives here, aside from other Wardens and politics and recruiting and Loghain finds the game itself vastly more enjoyable than he can recollect. Elissa is clever and analytical, but lacks endurance and allows her strategies to be interrupted by new ideas. She wins through intelligence and creativity and Loghain beats her – often enough for him to develop a genuine liking to chess – by wearing down her patience with persistence and bold moves.

Tonight, however, they are not playing. Their recent correspondence has suggested that the darkspawn attacks continue to increase in the north, which will demand their presence shortly.

Loghain stands just outside her door in the corridor upstairs, watching her at the desk. The soft surrender of her body when she knows nobody is watching, a different sort of woman appearing between the cracks of the armour. She drinks something from a mug, sighing a little and leaning back, stretching the muscles in her neck with a slight grimace. They had their first encounter with darkspawn outside the house yesterday and while it had not been a difficult battle it had – ironically - caught them unprepared and unaware. Loghain had strained his shoulder, one of knights had taken severe stab wounds to his chest and Elissa, he remembers now, had been roughly knocked off her feet by a hurlock.

He clears his throat before he enters, giving her a chance to gather her composure. It leaves a trace of satisfaction in him that she merely lifts her gaze at his arrival, smiling at the sight of him.

You _do_ need excuses, Maric says in his head, snidely. Poor old sod.

"You wanted to discuss the route for the coastline." He thumbs the maps in his hand.

"Yes."

The room seems smaller every time he sees it. Loghain lets his eyes sweep over the stacks of books and various piles of debris she has littered the floor with in here. On most surfaces there are teacups and goblets or plates, half-eaten apples and unfinished letters spread out among inkpots missing their covers, which will make her curse next time she tries to dip a quill in them - he knows because he sees it almost every day. Elissa may not want servants, but she certainly needs them.

After having cleared some space for his maps, Loghain sits down beside her.

"Ideally, we can leave at the end of Parvulis," he says. "That should give us enough time to recruit here."

Elissa nods, leaning forward. "This road should be passable, should it not?"

"Yes."

"Yes, that will give us some overview of the coast, too." Loghain watches her fingers over the lines of the map, follows it as she drags it across the coast and up to Amaranthine where she pauses, making a little grimace. "And then we're in Amarantine."

"Then we're in Amaranthine, yes."

They have not gone into any details of the future that involves Elissa's arling, have not had the time nor, he suspects, the inclination for it; it still seems far away, too. Yet he of all people knows that it's a matter that will demand their attention sooner rather than later.

Loghain considers the road that seems to be their chosen one, raising a hand to rub at a spot on the back of his neck where it feels as if everything inside has stiffened to a lump of steel. The greatest measure of his years is that his body demands more time to recover, that it heals slower, his muscles and bones like creaking old leather requiring an amount of attention he forgets to grant himself.

"From the attack?" Elissa asks, glancing at him.

"It's nothing."

"Oh, is that so?" She smiles. "Here, allow me."

And before he has time to protest, she has allowed herself, in her usual manner or lack thereof. It seems done almost by instinct - her hand on his back, as she rises to her feet, standing behind him - like it would be the natural thing to do.

When did he let her come this close? Loghain feels a strange lurch in his chest but he doesn't stop her. Why in the Maker's name doesn't he stop her?

"If we use this road," she continues conversationally, while her hand is rubbing along the side of his neck. Her palm is warm but the fingertips are a bit chilled which, he tells himself fervently, is the reason he is shivering somewhat under her touch. "How long would you say it will take us to get from here to Amaranthine?"

Her fingers are strong, working rhythmically over his muscles that soften with each stroke, a rush of blood heating up his shoulder, his arm, spreading down into his hand. He lets out a stifled sigh and attempts to focus on the map. It proves less simple than expected.

"A week, perhaps," he manages, as Elissa's thumb pushes into a knot deep inside the flesh, causing him to dip his head forward and close his mouth over a little moan of pain. She eases the touch, then repeats the procedure and this time it hurts a little less.

"A week? Truly?"

"Take into account that the road might be overrun by darkspawn. It is rather rough to begin with." He winces and feels his shoulders stiffen again as Elissa seems to press against his muscles with renewed strength, using her body to increase the pressure of her hands. He feels the warmth of her stomach against his back and – he learns as she stoops over him to look at the mark for an old mountain pass on the map – her chest pressing into the back of his head.

Grinding his teeth quietly, Loghain takes a deep breath. In his head, Maric laughs at him.

Not that Loghain can blame him. This _is_ rather pathetic.

"Hmm," Elissa makes a little sound that indicates she is mulling over what he has said. As she does that, she lets her fingers near the collar of his shirt, still massaging him, with an open hand now, slowly and gently. His skin is hot under her hand, or her hand is warm against him, he no longer knows the difference. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

"I would advise using that road all the same," he says, doing his best to keep himself anchored in his mind, not his body. "If we plan for the worst."

"The worst being a week's journey?"

"Yes."

Elissa's other hand is on his back now, as well, working its way up to his non-injured shoulder. As though she senses he is about to raise a protest, she pauses. But he doesn't say anything because what is he going he to say? And when two fingers find their way under his collar, Loghain loses the trail of thought completely.

This is not _right_.

He has been content with their friendship – _more_ than content, considering it a surprise and an oddity he never could have imagined finding or looking for in anyone – and not ever thought it insufficient in any way. The bonds they have shared over this year have been the bonds he once shared with Maric and Rowan, the kind of unconscious yet clearly drawn friendship and closeness only battle and necessity can forge between people; the kind he never thought he would have again.

And he finds that he can't endure the idea of the temporarily shifting lines around them, their roles being redefined in this way. He is too old to enjoy that sort of thing, too impatient, too brutally honest.

She leaves such a stark sound in him if he lets her, if she is left to wander this far inside his defences; a hollow sort of longing that isn't going to be satiated with scraps of pitying affection or lingering delusions about childhood heroes – or whatever it is that she can possibly have for him – and he cannot even allow his mind to consider anything else. It would be a foolish thing, counter to all propriety and reason and –

Elissa's hand that is cupping the back of his neck is decreasing the pressure until she is suddenly all but caressing him, her fingers tracing lightly over his skin, leaving a path of heat in their wake.

Loghain sits back in his seat.

 _Do not do this to me_ , he means to say – no, worse, _beg_ of her – but he doesn't because he feels anger flare up instead, slow and hot and burning at the pit of his stomach, fuelled by his wounded pride and lost momentum. He does not know what games she seeks to play with him, he only knows he is not playing. Turning around, he reaches for her hand, encircling her wrist with his fingers and as he does that, Elissa looks at him, her eyes wide and open and _naked_ and he quiets his breath, guarding himself at the honest lack of pretence in her gaze.

She parts her lips, about to speak. He waits. There is something at the back of her gaze, a challenge or a question – perhaps an admission.

And then the sound at the door makes her pull away from him abruptly, immediately averting her gaze. Loghain can't help but feel that he is not the only one with wounded pride and the thought is confounding. Elissa presses her hands to her tunic, smoothing out invisible creases.

"Commander?" comes the voice from outside the door they have left ajar. "Commander, the new Wardens are here."

* * *


	27. Sense and accountability

The new Wardens, Elissa learns as she hurries down the flight of stairs in a fairly graceless and undignified way – her heart still beating hard and heavy beneath her ribcage that feels a bit too _tight_ \- are made up of two tall, bulky men, one wiry elven boy and a female surface dwarf. She lets her gaze sweep over them in an attempt at anchoring their faces in her memory.

Everyone is looking back at her, expectantly.

"Welcome to Gwaren." Elissa clears her throat and notices that Loghain has followed her downstairs, positioning himself beside the group of knights who live with them and seem to move in one symbiotic cloud wherever they go. Loghain claims they are scared of her.

"I'm Elissa," she continues, rather needlessly.

The dwarf is the first one to step forward and does so with a broad grin, which makes her face light up. It's difficult to tell her age, there's a kind of ageless maturity to her, Elissa thinks as they shake hands.

"I'm Iera, Commander. It's an honour to serve you."

"My name is Nidahl, from the alienage in Denerim," the elf greets her, and Elissa can't help but notice that he looks at Loghain who stands there, stone-faced as ever. For a moment her mind wanders back to the stinking, filthy streets of those parts of the city where she had felt her own upbringing like a stitch in her heart, blended with an unwillingness to let go of the rose-tinted images passed on among those who had no reason and little care to ever set foot inside an alienage.

"The Order is glad to have you both," she says, rather stiffly. She does not perform well tonight, that is the one thing she knows for certain.

One of the men, the one with pale blond hair and freckles, blushes as soon as she looks at him and Elissa realises he is much younger than she first thought. It vaguely amuses her that he seems so utterly terrified. Perhaps she _does_ have that mean streak Fergus always claims runs through her.

"Elric, s-ser." The Warden bows. "Commander."

"Aedan," the other man says, in a much more jaded tone. The way he meets her gaze suggests he thinks she ought to recognise him but Elissa doesn't, she recognises no more than the faint idea of his appearance seeming to belong to some lesser nobleman's bloodline. "At your service."

Oh Maker, that wheedling _smirk_. Elissa hopes she manages to sufficiently stifle the wince and wonders for a second how Duncan endured this part, the merging of the new Wardens with their airs of either hero worship or self-importance with an Order where there's nothing but blood to be shed and ignoble, painful deaths to be shared. The previous recruits currently in Denerim were never like this, the only thing she remembers about them is that they rarely spoke at all, minded their own business and fought well.

"There is food left from supper," Elissa says, hoping she is right – they usually have a great deal of leftovers as the townspeople still show their respect and gratitude in fish, meat and vegetables. "We will see to finding beds for you and if you have any questions, ask me or Loghain."

A long, tiring session of unexpected social gathering later, Elissa finds herself alone with Loghain at an almost empty table.

"Aedan seems a handful," she mutters into her goblet, feeling aged beyond her years. She must have been very much like him, mere years ago: young, arrogant, eager to challenge all authority for the sake of it. Perhaps, she thinks with a little groan, she still is.

"He was eager to impress you." Loghain shrugs, his fingers curled around the foot of his goblet. His wine seems – as usual – mostly untouched. Yes, she thinks irritably to herself, perish the _thought_ of losing some of that self-control. "They all were."

"Right." She sighs. "I should probably get used to this."

"Yes."

He sits like a statue in front of her, his expression carved out from stone, the way she remembers it from far back in her recollection, back when they were barely enduring each other's company. Since then it has been altered - until now, apparently, when he seems to shift again, tilting himself away from her and making himself untouchable.

Elissa looks down on her hands where they rest on the tabletop, lit by the dancing light from the candles around them. They look hard and rough, calloused in new ways from this summer's unfamiliar duties. One of her thumbs is still missing its nail, since one of the soldiers recently knocked over a pile of timber that fell on her hand; it had hurt like poisoned daggers through her flesh and in the end she tore off the dead, grey-blue mockery of a nail instead of waiting for it to come off. A new one is slowly reappearing, growing back over the strangely _bumpy_ surface. It fascinates her to watch it from day to day, a quiet, reassuring process of her body mending itself. But it is also as slow as watching a mountain move, and she has forgotten how bloody long it takes without healing magic. Not that she can imagine Wynne being terribly eager to tend to Elissa's nails, but still.

"Don't pick," Loghain says suddenly and it's not until then Elissa realises she's been tearing at the thin layers of nail and skin. There's a tiny hint of warm amusement seeping into his words. You have the patience of a hungry mabari, he has told her once and seems to say it again, without words this time. "It will only get worse."

"It _itches_ ," Elissa grunts but gives it a rest all the same, wondering where a man who ignores open chest wounds in the middle of battle gets the authority to lecture _her_ about injuries.

She points it out and he smiles a little, and for a moment nothing is wrong or difficult.

Then she holds his gaze longer than she normally would, and there is it again, the shiver of longing playing in her, fluttering in and out of sight when they speak. Followed by the awkward notion that he has seen it, too. That he saw it before when something passed between them, something that still sits here; a sharp-edged little thing wedging itself in between his pride and her own – and Maker knows they've both got pride in abundance - and now it is _here_ , no matter how deftly she tries to reason with herself.

Elissa reaches for her goblet – the second, perhaps even the third, she's lost count - and empties it in one dragged-out swallow. She can feel fire under her skin when she's done, a swirling sensation of drowning tugging at her mind. And in the silence caused by gritted teeth, she gives her thoughts free rein momentarily, until they threaten to slip out of her mouth.

"We should test their abilities tomorrow, I suppose," she says, getting to her feet, which proves unexpectedly difficult. After two wobbly steps to the side, however, she regains her balance. Loghain looks like he is expecting her to fall down despite this, giving her sidelong glances as they begin to walk upstairs.

"I agree," he says simply.

It might be the wine or the way he is stoic where she is falling apart. Regardless, this nudges what has been poorly repressed all evening and Elissa takes a deep breath as she walks one step behind him up the narrow stairs to their bedchambers. He says nothing and she bites back all her words, deeming them inappropriate or pathetic or both.

"I'm sorry," she says, finally, when he is already at his door.

Loghain doesn't turn around at first, he stands with his back to her for a long time, before he finally looks at her again. "Whatever for?"

"I made you uncomfortable before. I stepped out of line." The words form a torrent in her mouth and she must _force_ herself to not look away; she notices that he is watching her with a confounded expression in his face, as though he is trying to understand something far beyond what she is saying. It makes her feel observed in a very unnerving fashion and so she gives in, finds a spot behind him to fasten her eyes on. "My apologies."

Uncertain whether Loghain's silence is caused by the fact that she apologises or that she mentions in words what had _not_ happened, Elissa decides she can't stand to wait for the response. There's a limit to the amount of wounds her pride can suffer, after all.

The door closes behind her, between them, with a dull sound.

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Solis – _solace_ , Nan says in her head, the season of comfort - is the warmest month Elissa can remember.

They have an endless string of unbroken summer days this year, a heat that seems almost oppressive, even by the sea where the air usually carries hints of cold undercurrents. And, as though orchestrated by the weather, their routines remain the same, too: a pattern of mundane daily tasks occasionally interrupted by riding into town to raise the interest for joining the Order.

A few days after the newcomers' arrival, they are already falling into the habits and routines without much trouble. Led by Fabien, a man in Sighard's service who seems to possess the most knowledge of building houses, they begin to lay the groundwork for the stables as well as a separate building that will serve as dormitory for future Wardens.

Elissa learns that she likes to build. She has never done it before in her life and she is aware that her work leads to a few grimaces as well as irritated muttering about how she'd be ushered away if she wasn't the commander. When they think she isn't watching they alter and redo some of her most appalling workmanship but she finds that it doesn't matter, that she likes constructing all the same. There's a simple logic to it. It keeps her hands warm and moving; it keeps her thoughts in line and her heart light and it's such a _nourishing_ thing, seeing their progress measured in the number of lengths accomplished in a day's work. No more, no less.

It also gives her aches in muscles she had no idea existed and in the evenings she lies flat on her back in the cooling grass, in the garden at the back of the main building.

Everything that grows here, every flower and bush, seems to do it in spite of themselves, like it should not ordinarily belong here or with the others. There's sage and clover, roses and various wildflowers Elissa has no names for growing in chaotic formations; there is rosemary and mint and buckthorn shrubs and to someone with a passion for gardening or an eye for what goes well together, she presumes, this would not be called beautiful.

But it is quite magnificent.

When Loghain finds her this evening she is half-asleep, arms tucked in under her head as a pillow and her mind full of the sweet, intoxicating scents of the nature around them. She has closed her eyes and it's the stirring traces of him in her body that announce his arrival, as efficiently as any eyesight.

"The hunting went well?" she asks as he wordlessly sits down, a bit further away.

Previously today, Loghain had taken pity on Dog's restless soul and brought Elric and Iera with him to the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest to hunt, hoping to find some darkspawn as well.

"Iera rescued Elric from being eaten by a bear," Loghain says dryly and with so much sarcasm that Elissa chuckles, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him.

"He is _that_ useless?"

"He is a bundle of badly handled nerves." Loghain rubs the bridge of his nose. He looks tired, Elissa thinks, hoping he at least made certain to have a proper supper after they returned from the hunt. "I caught him displaying fine swordmanship when he was forced to."

"You ran into darkspawn, I take it?" She rolls over to her side, supporting her head with one hand.

"A few, yes. Just a scattered group of genlocks."

"Nobody spoke?" It has become habit by now, asking this. And it's disheartening that they seem to find no more of those who _do_ speak because that suggests that they are aware of being discovered and possibly hiding from the Wardens, biding their time.

Loghain catches her gaze when he replies. "Nobody spoke."

He leans back on his hands in the impossibly high grass – they are meant to _do_ something about that, surely – and looks up at the stars, like she has been doing for quite some time now.

"As usual, then." She yawns a little, trying to stifle it by sighing. "So there's hope for Elric?"

"Perhaps. As long as you don't shout at him."

Elissa laughs. "You tried that, didn't you?"

Loghain's snort is all the answer she needs. She relents a little where she lies, thinking she has been so wound-up lately, so tense around him that she has forgotten how simple it can be, too – how simple it _is_ , unless she brings inane prospects and her own _idiocy_ into their interaction.

"Can you sleep in this heat?" she asks conversationally.

"Not well," Loghain says, raking a hand through his hair. "Judging by the snoring I hear through my wall, others do not share this problem."

"Sorry about that." Shifting position somewhat on the ground, Elissa gives him a little apologetic grimace. While she has a bedchamber far from the others, Loghain is not that fortunate.

"It is hardly your fault." He throws her a quick glance.

They are quiet for a long time, listening to the muffled noise of the house and all its inhabitants coming to rest after a day's work. There's a certain domesticity to it, and she feels like an old matriarch who watches it all with a curt nod or a benevolent smile.

She begins to feel restless, tugging at her lower lip and tapping her fingers against her side, which leaves soft thudding sound in the silence. Loghain seems to observe her hand very intently, she notices and gives a little smile; for a second she thinks she has unintentionally breached some defence in him, because his gaze softens slightly, and just as she is about to say something – _anything -_ he looks away.

"It is getting late." As quietly as he arrived, he is getting to his feet, she realises. Like he is merely a passing figure in the long chain of events making up her day. It leaves a strange, hollow feeling.

"Loghain?" she calls for him as he has begun to walk away.

"Yes?"

"I... hope you can sleep," she says, feeling the idiocy burn in her as soon as the words leave her mouth. "If you can't... I mean, I have some potions left."

He is silent for a while, and she's grateful he is standing behind her so she doesn't have to look at him.

"I appreciate your concern," he says eventually. "I'll let you know if I need one of those."

And then he is gone.

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When they don't build, they train.

Loghain has nearly forgotten how he used to enjoy just that – lead and supervise a group of warriors in their quest for improving themselves. He had never thought much of the brawling, boisterous groups in any other way, always avoided their gatherings, but he had indeed found it rewarding to _train_ them.

Today it's Elissa's turn on the training grounds, leading the new Wardens as well as a few of the recruits who have volunteered to partake in the next Joining in an re-enactment of an exhausting and never-ending battle. Loghain observes it from the side of the field where he is seated, going through the last few volumes of Warden chronicles they had managed to get out of Soldier's Peek.

Once the battle is over, he hears her urge them to continue and her disapproving tone makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

"No rest, Aedan! You shouldn't be out of breath already! Elric, _honestly_! If you drop your sword like that in a fight against the darkspawn you will _die_ and I will not help you!"

Looking up, Loghain notices that she is placing them in two lines opposite each other, instructing them to duel each other for practice, something that causes an approving mutter to rise from the crowd of fighters.

"Go on, I said no pause! Elric - at least _try_ to parry, will you? Andraste's arse!"

"I thought you said no pause?" Loghain asks as she's approaching him, her swords sheathed and her hands visibly dirty from the field.

"Well, I killed the sodding Archdemon, didn't I? If I want to rest, I can rest." She shoots him a bright smile.

Loghain puts the book down. "I see."

Her hair is damp and there's sweat running along the sides of her face as she slumps down on a mound of stones beside him, reaching for a flask of water on the ground. She drinks greedily before letting a rivulet from the flask run over her hands as well, washing them hurriedly.

"This is _fun_ ," she concludes and he has to smile at that. "But they're weak."

"Not everyone has your strength." Loghain purposely avoids looking anywhere below her neck because it's a scorching hot day and like the rest of them, she is only wearing a thin shirt and breeches and the unbridled foolishness of his mind seems to have outgrown his defences lately. Either the men on the training ground don't share his taste in women or else they are not easily perturbed.

Or perhaps they have some kind of dignity and self-control? Maric suggests in his head. Maker's breath, man, you need to _do_ something about this.

"They are merely lazy." She seems amused. "Will you help me with the duels?"

A moment later they are side by side on that field, with the sun burning away everything but that very scene: the metal, the movements, the well-rehearsed dance that is so challenging to teach someone else because it is part of your blood, written on your bones. Loghain loses track of how long they tutor and how many fighters he instructs, how many mistakes they see repeated over and over again. They pause for a meal at midday but pick it up again quickly, intent on not wasting any time.

Eventually they proceed to duelling in pairs, while the others are watching, getting some much-needed rest. Loghain sees Elric bested by Iera, then by Aedan, but at the last minute, facing Nidahl, he seems to pick up on something Elissa has told him over the course of the day and manages to hit the sword out of the elf's hands. Not impressive by any means, but a victory.

"I would like to duel you, Commander." Iera's request comes with a gust of appreciated wind, giving them a moment's release from the unabating sunlight. "If you would give me the honour?"

Elissa does – she even grants the other woman a brief respite before she defeats her, Loghain notices. He can tell when she holds back. As Iera leaves the centre of the field, Aedan steps forward, followed by Nidahl; Elissa duels them all, one by one, narrating her moves as she makes them, which is quite impressive. She seems to have genuine trouble with the fast and hard-striking elf, who knows all the tricks for how to outmanoeuvre a larger opponent, but wears him out in the end, with a forceful flurry.

Just as Loghain assumes the duelling is done, he is called back by the drawling voice of Aedan who is suggesting a re-enactment of another battle, one that is not very far back in Loghain's mind and he thinks – as he glances sidelong at Elissa – is remembered well by his opponent, too.

"Everybody is still talking of your little show at the Landsmeet," Aedan says. "Those who were not present have regretted it since. I am certain we could... learn a thing or two?"

"Go on, ser," one of the braver potential recruits insists. She's got a round, red face and looks expectantly at him. "Duel her!"

"I have the disadvantage of having duelled already," Elissa points out, her voice low and private, intended only for his ears. It is also tauntingly calm behind that smirk. "And my sword is chipped and all."

"Surely you ought to have more important matters to tend to?" he retorts, under his breath.

She just laughs softly, knowing him well enough by now to realise that he will not be shown up in front of this crowd. And despite being too old, despite the sensation of being thrown back through the layers of time, Loghain lets his pride get the better of him once more. Shrugging, he unsheathes his sword and walks out to meet her on the field.

There's an exciting sound rippling through the lines of spectators.

Elissa had started out tentatively enough at the Landsmeet, playing the ill-suited part of the combatant focused on wearing down and tiring out the larger opponent's defences, before tapping into her own strength. He had thought it unimpressive to begin with and then, mid-duel, she had seemed to regret her previous stance and suddenly she was matching his strength instead of countering it, rushing forth instead of holding her own.

Loghain has watched her skill and progress for a year, has seen her shed the very last remains of coy manners and now there truly is nothing left of it, he witnesses as she goes in for the first blow. He parries, catching her gaze. Elissa stares back at him.

"No games," she says. It's a strangely worded statement but he knows exactly what she means, the words sinking low below the surface.

He nods, taking advantage of her momentarily lapse of focus by thrusting into her defences with his sword, which leaves her sidestepping to get away, hold her ground. Grunting, Elissa hits back and her blow is massive, fuelled by irritation and Loghain is the one who has to take several steps back. It seems to trigger her energy that he adjusts his grip of the blade because she is pressing him hard, putting up unrelenting pressure to her attacks and keeping a distance, rarely allowing him to draw her closer to take advantage of his size. Not that this would necessarily help, Loghain thinks, ducking her sword again. She's too big to be easily overpowered, too broad and heavy, rooted firmly in the ground. It makes it all the more fulfilling to send her into a stumble, of course, driving her back and into a brief run as he continues to push against her.

She counters, he parries and so the dance continues.

He has no idea how time passes during their duel – if they are at it for minutes or hours, how they fare, what their positions are, who has gained or lost the most ground. What he does know is that he is sweaty and that the warm air rages in his lungs and when he looks at Elissa she is hastily wiping her face with the back of her arm, her chest heaving visibly under the soaked tunic.

Within seconds, she is at his throat again, and this time he is unprepared, too exhausted to carry out the swift movements he envisions and she is so much _younger_ and with that streak of ferocious pride so easily attainable behind her posture.

Loghain is forced back, with Elissa pressing on harder than before despite her heavy breathing; she is using feints to block all his attempts at moving to the side and then, finally, she spins him around so he loses his balance for a fraction of a second and feels her sword clash against his own, unrelenting and powerful, forcing him to drop to his knees.

He hears her strained breaths in his ear as she closes in on him, the length of her body keeping his own in place in a stance reminding him a little too much of other things, especially when he feels the skin on his neck dampen as her warm puffs of breath heat it up. Stifling a sound caught somewhere between pleasure and defeat, he struggles against her. It proves to be difficult. She's forceful but not violent, her arms embracing him from behind as she tries to still him, seeking to give herself an opportunity to disarm him. Loghain turns, spinning her around so she's momentarily on her back and sprawled under him – that moment does not last long, however, as Elissa's sword finds a weak spot in his forced stance and he has to relent, giving up his advantage.

With a groan, she heaves herself up and there's a glint in her eyes he can't remember he has ever seen before: something guarded and at the same time raw, its honesty digging into him.

And then it's over.

Her free hand, swift and strong, closes around his wrist as he tries to roll over to push himself back to all fours and not long after that, before he has time for any other attempt she has wrestled him back down on the ground. The intense, increasing pain from her fingertips over his joints and sinews forces him to flex his hand and, as she slams his slackened hand down, to drop the sword. With her heel, Elissa kicks the blade several feet away.

There's a sound from behind them - or _around_ them, he corrects himself, blinking sweat from his eyes - indicating that he has lost.

And there is Elissa's face that suddenly seems to be floating above him like a cloud of badly repressed delight. She has a bloody scratch at the bridge of her nose, a bruise in the making on her chin and Loghain frowns, feeling a hot flash of guilt before he realises he is hardly walking away unmarked from this either.

_No games._

She sinks down over him, dishevelled and triumphant and he cannot seem to take his eyes off her, even if it quickly becomes a rather awkward physical presence in him, the way her face is flushed and sweaty and the way strands of hair dance around her broadening grin. He feels his own mind caving in around this image of her, feels his body steadily gain ground, moving forward with the same force as Elissa on the battlefield until he is acutely aware of every part of himself. _Every_ part, indeed, he thinks with a inward sigh, doing his best to balance the pleasure of her _exactly_ like this and the efforts required to control the effects of it. Still breathing heavily she holds the sword to his throat in a perfect imitation of the Landsmeet duel, except this time her gaze is warm in a distressing manner, her victory almost tender and Loghain surrenders once more, in a different yet oddly similar fashion.

You must admit you have rather _specific_ preferences, Loghain, Maric remarks in his head, amused as ever.

And _you_ didn't?

Maric merely sniggers at that. Snide bastard.

Loghain snaps out of the trail of thought and back into present where, he notices with an involuntary grimace, Elissa is _straddling_ him. Even without the image of it all – he keeps his gaze against hers, as locked as their bodies – he can feel her thighs around his waist and the heat from her -

_No._

Her hand rests on his chest for support, her fingers spread out and digging into his soaked tunic and as she shifts position slightly Loghain prays silently to the Maker that she has the good sense not to slide further down. It's _pathetic_ , but there it is. There is a limit to what he can be expected to endure, after all, and this, he thinks half-desperately, this has got to be _well_ past reason. He is so tired, so weary of these ridiculous bloody battles of the mind that he considers, almost seriously for a second, to pull her down over him, to have her warm and smiling and heavy on top of him –

 _Yes_.

He is defeated, in every sense of the word, he might just as well admit _that_ , too.

Elissa arches an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something. He wonders how long he has been silent and if that little trace of apprehension in her smile is meant for him or for herself.

"You win," he says hoarsely.

"You have learned my moves now," she replies. The calm assertion makes him smile, helplessly, because it is so typical of her – no flush of victory until she has made a proper evaluation. It's one of those small, banal things about her that has wormed its way into him and made him _care_ , beyond reason.

"I have. Yet you best me," Loghain points out, attempting to shake her off his chest by placing his hands on her hips to yank her away. Which, he realises, is one of the worst moves thus far since he suddenly gets his hands full of the undeniable roundness of those curves. And a smile lights on her face, a smile followed by a _very_ conscious movement of her body above his, reminding him that of all the things she are, innocent most definitely is not one of them. What he normally considers a blessing – for a man his age and with his past, innocence is distasteful, if anything – becomes a curse as he meets her gaze that is unabashedly observing him while he finds himself struggling not arch up against her.

"Barely," she says. She tilts her head, as though she's trying to look inside his thoughts. As though his thoughts could possibly be a mystery to her at this point.

He is surely reading too much into her tone, but she sounds genuinely _pleased_ with this discovery. Or – Maker _help_ him – with the fact that Loghain has to draw a sharp breath as she is sliding down his body, gracelessly struggling to get to her feet.

"I must thank you for a good battle," she says, reaching out a hand, while looking over her shoulder at the recruits and Wardens. "I hope you lot watched and learned. You are dismissed. Go get yourselves cleaned up and find something to eat."

Loghain, standing again, shakes her hand, listening to the noise of the clapping, cheering recruits and – scrambling for the remains of his control and momentum – he announces her the winner.

While the field empties around them, Loghain walks up to his scattered belongings on the ground and gathers them. His shoulders ache. Last time he gave into such a childish display of pride and unattended desires they had healers around. This time they will wear their bruises like reminders and he is fairly certain he will not catch any sleep tonight.

Allowing Dog to lick a wound on her arm, Elissa crouches at the edge of the training ground, her tunic plastered to her back.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, as though remaining at this distance from her would close the gap between what he wants and what he can possibly allow himself. It doesn't, by far.

"Oh, yes." She pushes herself to her full height, looking fixedly at him. "About as much as I hurt you, I suppose?"

He nods, curtly. "I will see you back at the house."

"Loghain, I-"

"We can talk later," he interrupts, aware that if he made up for the most obvious awkwardness by remaining rather than leaving with the recruits, he balances that scale now, by marching off.

Elissa doesn't say anything else and she doesn't hurry to his side, so he strides quickly over the grass until the soft, steady flow of her in his blood can no longer be felt.

A female knight is sitting in the great hall as Loghain enters the house. There's a hurried, impatient air about her and the way she constantly pushes dark hair out of her face and lets her gaze flicker from one spot to another. At the sight of him she practically jumps to her feet.

"Good evening, ser," she says, offering him polite greetings despite the touch of urgency in her tone. "I am here for the Commander."

"She is right behind me," Loghain says, eyeing the guest. "And you are?"

"My name is Mhairi. I am a knight in the king's service and a Grey Warden recruit from Denerim, here on behalf of the King and the Wardens to escort the Commander to Amaranthine."

"What's the situation there?" he asks, sharply.

The woman looks at him. "Unfortunaly, I do not know any details, ser. But it is said to be dire. Overrun by darkspawn. I would suggest we leave at daybreak."

.

.

.

.

She must pack.

She really, definitely ought to pack.

After the long evening spent with Mhairi and Loghain, questioning and calculating risks and weighing pros and cons for everything, Elissa had sworn to herself to go upstairs, have a bath and prepare for the imminent departure. It had been a sound plan.

I am honoured to serve you, Commander, Mhairi had said, seemingly impressed with Elissa's readiness to handle the situation and prepare the horses for an unexpected journey.

Mhairi will probably be less honoured to serve Elissa if she learns that Elissa has spent the better part of tonight neither getting ready nor giving herself a few hours' of sleep, but instead pacing the floor of her bedchamber and thinking of excuses to slip into Loghain's room. Yet this is precisely what she has been doing, with the sole interruption of having that bath and carrying out the rest of the duel in her head and with her hand, soaked in warm water and biting hard at the bend of her arm.

Not that it had _helped_. Well, not much at any rate. She braces herself against the lingering remains of the fantasy - one of her best, she has to admit - and returns to the bags.

Right.

Packing.

Right before dawn, just as she has finally finished sorting out her belongings and the suitable supplies, leaving the rest for Loghain to use and bring with him when he eventually follows to Amaranthine, she closes the door to her own chamber and pads across the corridor down to Loghain's room.

The door, she notices to her surprise, is still ajar. She opens it enough to peek inside, spotting him fully dressed and at work, buried half-way in a massive map, by the look of it.

"Are you already up or did you never go to bed?"

Loghain looks at her from behind the large, high table where he keeps his maps when he studies them. She remains in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. When he doesn't offer one, she enters anyway, closing the door behind her.

"I was on my way to check on the supplies," he says. "You are still leaving come daybreak?"

Elissa nods. She should tell him to carry out the task he had intended. He ought to insist on doing so. But instead she steps further inside and he remains where he is. She feels her her body tense; squaring her shoulders as though preparing for battle, she walks up to the table, leaning over it from the opposite side.

"I have already double-checked the packing," she informs him.

The room is rather cold, which strikes her a strange. Through the open windows there's a chilly and damp morning air leaking in, flooding them and she's _leaving_. Loghain continues to keep himself occupied by rolling up a map, fidgeting with the scroll for a bit and putting it away. A hopeless sense of going in circles has perched itself in her body, whispering darkly of impossibilities and delusions. She silences it by closing the distance between them somewhat, one step, then another, then she is standing beside him, pretending to look at the map he is currently reading.

It's the one that marks all the known old passages to the Deep Roads.

"Will you use the route we intended when you leave?" Elissa asks.

Loghain considers it for a second. "I think so, yes."

She nods too, as though she needs to confirm his words. Standing like this, she can feel the warmth of his skin through the layers of clothing separating them now, can sense the outlines of his body against hers. Side by side, their shoulders don't touch because he is taller and Elissa feels his larger frame as an awareness in her, a weight in her body, heady and slow, coiling at the pit of her stomach and spreading further down. It is too late for defences now. He is already inside all of them.

"There seems to be no other road available," she says weakly, glancing at him.

"There is that one-" Loghain reaches over to the side of the map that is closest to her and as he does, his arm brushes against Elissa's chest. She freezes and he does too, but he doesn't pull back, at least not at first. When he does, when he once again rests his hand on the table, Elissa moves her own hand over it, letting her arm rest against his and their hands intertwine over the coastline of southern Ferelden. Which, she thinks, it rather ironic.

"Elissa-" Loghain begins, looking at her with an expression that almost seems _concerned_ , of all things. Or perhaps it's doubt. He is proving even more difficult to read as the cracks in his composure give way to something else, and the old gashes are mended with new, rendered armour.

"I..." she interrupts, but lets her voice trail off.

He is too close to talk to and she doesn't _want_ to talk. She wants, possibly, to say _please_ and _now_ and less coherent things, later if at all. Elissa tips her head slightly to the side; when their eyes meet she smiles tentatively, trying out this new language between them - one of almost-confessions but no words. Loghain inclines his head in what appears to be agreement, he observes her hand in his; his thumb is grazing her knuckles, gently. It's rough and calloused and impossibly, endlessly soft all at once and she drops all her guards and turns to him, taking him in.

His neckline is loose, the fabric of his shirt a bit worn, expanded by time and frequent wear and it shows the hollow of his throat. Along his hairline she spots a small area of white skin where the sun has not reached through his heavy layer of hair – it amuses her to know that even this unforgiving heat leaves parts of him alone.

She will always remember him like this. _Now_.

Elissa follows the outlines of the side of his face with her eyes, mapping its contours in her mind. The lines of jaw and ear and the place where they meet; the soft defenceless spot where you can feel someone's pulsating blood if you press carefully; his hair that carries a scent of soap buried in warm grass and earth, in sun-baked _outside_ reminding her of a world beyond this; the curve of his mouth and the lines travelling up towards his nose carrying ghosts of the man he has been, unshakable proofs of a life lived. In the corner of his eyes he has a thin spider's web of wrinkles, almost like a pattern. Of what, she does not know.

Very slowly she disentangles her right hand from his, removes it from maps and duties and memories from before; she lets her fingers travel along the back of his neck, fingertips marking the exact boundaries and borders between them. It is not until Loghain turns his head to look at her, that she realises she's been holding her breath.

"Elissa?" he asks, his voice low and soft. "Are you-"

 _You had an injury from the duel_ , she could have said, in a half-hearted answer to his unfinished question, a last-minute resort to lies. Or _I saw something on your skin_.

But she doesn't.

Instead she kisses him.

She kisses him and he is absolutely still, showing no intention to respond; Elissa pulls back, steps away, a hard knot of disappointment beginning to twist itself around her lungs. He looks at her, frowning as he seems to go over the scenario in his head, making a bloody strategy of it. A sudden flare of anger runs through Elissa.

"I do not think this is wise," he says, but he sounds like he doesn't truly mean it.

Even so, it makes her cheeks hot and she finds no words for it; somehow this seems to make something dissolve in him, because his posture relents and as she turns to walk away, Loghain grabs hold of her, his hand around her wrist like a mirror image of another night, only this time he pulls her against him until her hand rests on his chest and his free hand gets caught up in her hair.

She looks at him, almost frowning in surprise, as he is suddenly kissing her back. Softly at first, slowly, then he deepens the kiss, his hand strong and demanding at the back of her head and the other one at the small of her back, gathering her closer against him. She feels her stomach lurch, a hot flush of blood shifting through her as she's pressing back into his touch.

They _kiss_.

It's such a remarkable thing to finally do it, and such an unexpected __pleasure__ , that she swallows a little noise of too-eager _want_ , pushing it away with another kiss, then another one. Elissa lets the hand resting on his chest run up over his shoulders to cradle his neck, brush through his hair, allows it to linger in the warm, thick strands. And her free hand travels up to Loghain's face, caressing it, only to find the cartography of her map off in places, correct in others and he closes his eyes with a sigh as the pads of her fingers reshape the lines surrounding them.

"So this is unwise?" she asks, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb.

"It hardly matters now," he says, running a hand through her hair with a fascinated expression on his face.

It's a lie. Of course it matters, they both know it matters, but not this morning, not in this room.

Elissa smiles and pulls him closer once more; for a long time they just stand like that, in a silence surrounded by chilly gusts of air. Then she puts her hands around his face, kisses her way down his throat and further down to the hollow of it where he is a flood of heartbeats and tastes of steel and battle. Loghain lets out a distinct sound of approval that reminds her cruelly of the fact that they are running out of time, as do his hands around her waist that are pressing her up against him until they verge on being inseparably close, a sort of defiant but futile resistance.

She is breathless as she disentangles herself.

"I have to _go_ ," she manages.

Loghain looks at her, his gaze as unwarded as her own, momentarily rendered transparent as he gives a thin smile. "Yes."

With a sigh, she leans her still-sore chin against his shoulder and Loghain's hands on her back are warm and comforting, their shape bleeding into the thoughts of what she would _prefer_ them to do right now, over and over and over again, until her mind shuts up.

"I hear they have locks on the doors in Amaranthine," she mumbles, suddenly feeling the weight of the hours she has not slept recently.

"I hear they do," he agrees, sounding amused and serious all at once.

At the door, she pauses, her hand around the handle and her body full of hotly flushing blood.

"Elissa?"

"Yes?" She looks at him over her shoulder. It's strange; he looks the same but nothing _is_.

"Have a safe journey."

* * *

 


	28. The Arlessa of Amaranthine

* * *

It has been a desperately long day

In fact it has, Elissa thinks as she rubs rubs her temples and paces the floor of the throne room, been a desperately long day to crown a desperately long _week_. Ever since the departure from Gwaren she has been in motion - either riding or battling - and tonight they have fought for hours without rest, pushing back the invading darkspawn. It appears the Vigil is safe for the moment being. Hopefully it will remain safe until she can figure out where the darkspawn have slipped in and managed to gain ground, or at the very least until tomorrow when there's daylight to guide her and the soldiers.

If there is anybody left to help her, that is.

"Commander, the dwarf is having a meal. He seems exceptionally well given the circumstances." Seneschal Varel re-enters the room and gives her a brief, polite nod. "The mage and the prisoner have both been brought to a spare bedchamber."

Elissa nods, shuffling her previous notions of the new recruits in her head. She had not expected Anders to survive; he had proven himself a good fighter and seemed a decent enough man not to give the templars the pleasure of hanging him, but she had not exactly counted on him becoming a _Warden_. On the other hand, she had never in her life considered the possibility of Oghren becoming one either but it figures, she thinks with a sigh, that the dwarf can survive anything as long as it's in liquid form.

As for Nathaniel Howe, she has not yet formed any words to define her feelings for the fact that he didn't perish during the Joining. He is a dark, bone-hard knot in her chest – the way he had tilted his head and stared at her, the near-desperate protests when he learned of her plans, the expression in his eyes as she had explained to him that she was not giving him a choice in the matter. Nobody against their will, her own voice echoes in her head. That's what she had said once to Loghain before she left for Orlais and they had made plans for the recruiting. Unwilling soldiers cause a stir they can't afford. But things change, she tells herself now. For good or ill, Nathaniel Howe is a Warden; he is paying for the sins of his father and there is no real justice in that but somehow Elissa can't find it in her to _care_.

"And Mhairi?" Among the thoughts about the woman who has been Elissa's sole company for several days, there is a thin wire of grief. Mhairi – a strong and capable knight with a sharp mind - would have been a welcome companion in this place.

"Her body has been taken care of."

"There will be a lot of bodies to burn," Elissa observes glumly, shifting position. She should have arrived sooner, of course, there is no denying that. Her arling has suffered immensely already, the hurried journey had revealed as much and she had not been able to stop thinking of her father's lectures on governing the freemen and farmers as they rode past far after farm where the fields were burned down and the only signs of life had been wild animals. But this is the endless guilt reserved for the ones in charge, she reminds herself in her most sensible tone, and therefore meaningless to wallow in. At least right now.

"Yet we drove back the darkspawn, Commander," Varel says as though he can read her mind.

"We did, at that." She gathers herself, squaring her shoulders and meeting the seneschal's gaze. "You have acted commendably, all of you. I'm impressed-"

She is interrupted as the main doors open and Alistair slinks in, looking over his shoulder as though making certain he isn't being followed.

"My healer tended to the injured soldiers," he says as he crosses the floor and gives Elissa a glance that is difficult to interpret. They haven't spoken since the ill-advised adventure to the Deep Roads entrances and his sweeping in tonight in his cloud of knights has left her slightly confounded.

"We are most thankful for your help, Your Majesty," Varel replies when she doesn't and adds, after a glance at Elissa: "I will check on the survivors myself, make certain they have what they need."

"Thank you," Elissa nods to Varel who excuses himself and leaves.

She takes a deep breath, still trying to ease the headache by making her fingertips press down along the sides of her face. Her head feels too big, almost swollen inside, and she is reminded again of the fact that she had been hungry on the way here, which was several hours ago. All that is left of the hunger now is a hollow nausea.

She wishes Loghain was here, too, in a strangely abrupt twist of that trail of thought. Or perhaps it's not so much strange as it is deeply _worrying_ that the trace of him is running deeper than she is willing to let it, wrapping itself around her very needs. He would be an extra voice of reason in the turmoil, a trusted friend among strangers and tonight, she thinks with that wildly inappropriate flutter in her stomach, he would also be a welcome distraction in the face of all this death.

"I had no idea the Howes had such a fancy keep," Alistair says, looking up at the ceiling and taking in the extent of the throne room. "I mean, it's _huge_."

"A lot of it are fairly recent additions."

"You don't say."

Alistair sprawls in a chair near the side door that, if she remembers correctly, leads out into a corridor and not into the armoury. Walking up to him Elissa feels heavy and slow, as though tonight has added new weight to her body. A pound for each corpse, perhaps. Or perhaps it's merely the injuries trapping her in this sensation. Apart from the usual scratches and bruises, there's a wound underneath one of her pauldrons; it's sending increasingly strong jolts of pain through her side, spreading down her back and chest. Elissa winces as she tries to reach it without drawing too much attention to her doing so.

"I thought you were leaving tonight?" she asks, as she manages to undo the fastenings of the metal and slip a finger beneath, regretting it instantly as the tunic is soaked with what smells like infected blood. Blasted darkspawn poison.

"Change of plan – we're leaving in the morning. My knights didn't want to travel when they saw the approaching thunderstorm." He gives her a half-smile. "Valiant as they are, they cannot protect me from lightning and rain. I need to make it back to Denerim without a scratch on my royal flesh, after all."

The gilded cage, she thinks, trying anew to ignore the burning sensation in her shoulder. He's certainly travelling like a king these days – she had caught a glimpse of the carriage he came in when she scouted the edges of the grounds one last time. It seems so far away, a ludicrous, absolutely _unthinkable_ option for herself, yet all that separates her path from Alistair's is a few days of political intrigue back in Denerim before the Landsmeet.

Her own journey here had been spent darting through dangerous passages that were chosen on Loghain's advice and left her with the conclusion that either he has not seen the roads for quite some time or he has a firmly rooted confidence in Elissa's competence and endurance. Granted, his advice had been solid as ever and they arrived a day earlier than they would have, using the safer roads. There had been bandits and darkspawn of course, but in small numbers and without much purpose – the most perilous part had instead been the mountain passes and then the marshes, wide and vast and teeming with the kind of things that make people so willing to believe marshes are haunted places.

"It's late, isn't it?" Elissa asks, feeling Alistair's concern as he looks at her. She doesn't understand why until she notices she has, habitually and without registering it, removed the pauldron and stands with it in her hands. Shrugging, she puts it away on a table.

"Yes," Alistair nods. "Or very early, depending on how you see it. Me, I'm willing to call it early."

She smiles faintly. "It's _definitely_ late."

It is rather odd even if it somehow makes perfect sense to have him here at what feels like the beginning of something – yet another _beginning_ after two years of brutal endings – since he had been there when she was a brand new Warden. Elissa's smile deepens as she looks at him in his chair, his eyes bright but tired. She had found him endlessly frustrating during that journey from Ostagar to Lothering: his suspicion of Morrigan, his attempts at humour and his self-absorbed bloody grief over Duncan when Elissa had been forced to swallow her own misery and make plans for their survival. His friendship had certainly demanded some getting used to.

She wonders if she can still have it, at least some form of it, or if they have grown too far apart.

"Three new Wardens." Alistair looks at her, scratching his arm through the thick layers of his surprisingly fancy clothing. It takes a king to wear embroidered tunics under armour, she thinks with a mental eye-roll. "And all in one night."

"Are you considering rejoining our cause?" she asks, walking away from him and up to the well-stacked bookshelf. It's lived-in, this place. For the moment she will pretend it's the work of the Orlesian Wardens, not the remains of the Howes, telling herself that soon enough the keep will carry new marks and traces, its contours blurred by new inhabitants.

"If I could, I probably would," he says and there's an open thread of longing in his voice. "I've rather missed this darkspawn killing part."

"They've stayed away from Gwaren all summer so I can almost say I agree," Elissa says, deciding she will need to find a potion for the pain as the frenzy from the battle is beginning to leave her blood and take the wonderful numbness with it. "How is Denerim?"

"Calm as well. Between you and me, I would say it has been boring."

Elissa lets one of her fingers run along the backs of books lined neatly in front of her, scrapes her nail softly over titles suggesting a rather eclectic mix of historical chronicles and romantic legends of knights as well as a volume of the secrets of Rivainian cookery.

"The Orlesian Wardens set out for Highever before I left to ride here," Alistair adds, which makes Elissa spin around, momentarily oblivious to the ache the sudden movement causes in her shoulder.

"Highever? Why?"

"Oh." He raises an eyebrow. "I thought you knew. The darkspawn have hit Highever very hard recently. Fergus called for help."

"I didn't know anything about that. He hadn't told me." Elissa sighs. It's a foolish, childish emotion unworthy of a Warden-Commander but she feels like the little sister again, trudging along at Fergus' heels, wanting to be part of his big brother secrets, the same kind of indignation at not being initiated welling up even here, as a grown woman. " _Bastard_."

"The situation is under control, last I heard." Alistair looks at her, getting up from his chair and walking up to where she's standing. "He probably didn't want to worry you since you have other duties."

Elissa snorts. "He _should_ worry me! Darkspawn is my concern, not his."

"You're not the only Grey Warden in Ferelden, you know." He says it quietly, in a tone that makes Elissa hold his gaze for a moment, waiting for him to continue but he doesn't.

She steadies herself against the frame of the bookshelf; her wounded shoulder feels like it has been set on fire and Alistair sees her struggle too, but he knows her too well to mention it. Instead his gaze wanders over the books, stopping at a large red volume that he pulls out.

"Can I... er, can I have this?"

Elissa peeks over his shoulder at the title – _An Unabridged History of Fereldan Heraldry_ – and frowns. "Honestly? I had no idea you even liked to read."

"Well. I don't. Not much, anyway. But it's not for... well, for _me_." Alistair suddenly looks awkward, clearing his throat and averting his eyes. "I mean, it's a rare volume. We – the _palace_ doesn't have it."

"Help yourself," Elissa says, suppressing a tired grin. "I hope Anora likes it."

Alistair's ears flush at that, but he doesn't offer a response so Elissa generously lets the subject go. It's difficult enough to be witty in his presence, even without the pounding sensation in her body, the way it manages to utterly cloud her mind. She's about to gather herself and go in search of a potion when she feels the surge of pain sweep her away entirely as the support from the shelf disappears and her head goes blank.

The next thing she knows she is in Alistair's arms, grasping at his tunic to regain her balance, her arms thrown around him and his arms strong around her as he carefully steers her to a chair.

"Thanks. I'm fine," Elissa tries, in an attempt at wriggling free.

"No, you're not."

"I just need a potion, Alistair. I swear it."

"Elissa." Alistair's voice drops to a serious note. "Sit _down_."

"Kings have no authority over the Warden-Commander," Elissa mutters, but relents when Alistair's hands guide her downwards, until she's sitting and he is stooping over her. It _is_ rather nice to feel solid wood framing her, she must concur silently.

"We will have to pretend you are the arlessa of Amaranthine then, just for tonight," he says.

"Yes, look how well _that_ turned out for you."

Grimacing, she glances up at him. His face is so familiar and so changed; she has managed to forget how he used to be able to convince her of anything simply by being kind to her the same way he is kind to her here in the place. She all but reaches out to touch him, squeezing his shoulder or letting the back of her hand brush over his cheek like she did back then, often when she had no words to match his. There's a new streak in him since they were last this close to each other, however, tones of maturity and composure in his gaze, a certainty in his words and gestures.

"There you go," he says, softly. "A nice chair. Best invention since the sword."

Elissa takes a moment to just breathe, calming herself. It does seem to make it all a little better.

"Your room has been prepared, Commander," another voice says, coming from behind Alistair. It's the seneschal who has returned, Elissa realises after a second of confusion. "I will fetch the herbalist for you immediately."

"I'm not in need of...," she lets her voice trail off as Alistair pointedly holds her down in her seat by placing a hand on her injury, sending a _hiss_ of almost unbearable pain through her blood. Bastard.

"You have been travelling for several days," Varel says, in that strangely reassuring, dry tone of his. She is already fond of him, if only for that little thing. "Not to mention that you have almost single-handedly carried out a counter-attack against the invading darkspawn here tonight. I would say this merits a hot meal and a night's sleep."

"There are dead everywhere. It _reeks_ of death in here. I need to get the keep cleared out and-"

"Tomorrow's work, Commander." Varel folds his arms across his chest.

Elissa feels her mind protest but feels too how her body relents, softening willingly against Varel's words and the inherit promises of them. Eventually she nods.

"Fine," she says, keeping the grunting displeasure out of her tone. "But before I do anything else, I need a messenger who can ride to Gwaren."

"Of course," Varel says immediately; she watches him head out again with an energy that is impressive and slightly surprising for someone who has kept up the defence of the keep for as long as he must have done. Perhaps he's seen the healer. She certainly hopes so.

"Good." Alistair puts his hand over hers on the armrest.

"What is?"

"You. Sitting down."

She smiles. Her eyes are getting tired and the vision blurs, but it's not as alarming as it was moments ago; through the haze she can see him quite clearly and he looks like he is smiling back. "Thank you, Alistair."

"For what?" He sounds amused, his voice gentle.

"Well." Elissa manages a little shrug. "You _know_."

Alistair chuckles at that. "You truly have _such_ a way with words. I'm blown away every time!"

"Go to bed, Your Majesty," she mumbles, longing for the same thing herself now that she has allowed herself to feel it. She hopes for the sort of nice, wide beds she remember from Highever castle and the same kind of large pillows. But she could probably sleep on the stone floor at this point.

"I will, at that," Alistair says and removes his hand from hers. She still feels warm from his touch. "Good night, then."

"Good night," Elissa echoes.

And then she sinks back in the chair, eyes closed, welcoming herself home.

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These past few weeks have been remarkably dull, Loghain concludes as he sends Iera out of his – or rather Elissa's - office and down to the slowly growing stables to assist the knights. She has proven herself the least annoying and most forward of the new Wardens as well as willing to learn, which also means she is _insistent_ on being entrusted with more duties than Loghain is prepared to give her. For a few days now, the dwarf has been following him around, seemingly brimful of ways to show her eagerness to be of use. If he found it annoying at first, it is quickly becoming downright trying.

Enthusiasm has long since ceased to impress him, especially since it is more often than not a cover for inaptitude.

With a sigh, he leans forward in his seat, turning his attention to today's accumulation of letters and notes. The second letter from Elissa – the first had arrived rapidly, with a messenger who had darted into the grounds and scared the soldiers on watch duty half-witless – is on top of the pile.

As he breaks the seal he feels a small stab of something as equally trying as Iera's quest for usefulness, but for very different reasons. It might very well just be the uneventful grind of Gwaren, but Elissa has _stayed_ in him, in a rather alarming fashion. He can almost fool himself at times to think he is sensing her, as though the shadow of her in his room is still present and somehow manages to level time.

Which is a _ridiculous_ bloody notion. He shrugs it off and opens the letter determinedly, beginning to decrypt the scribblings inside.

She writes, just like last time, of talking darkspawn and growing chaos along the main roads and settlements as well as in the wilderness. The darkspawn all seem to have a standing order of capturing her, while the nobility – just as nasty and far less simple to outsmart, Loghain thinks with a sneer – is rumoured to be plotting against her. It leaves a restless irritation in him, not being _there_. His advice is of little use with several days' journey between them. Even if he might merely make a dire situation worse through his presence in the region of Howe's staunch supporters and sworn enemies, he would be where things happen instead of here, rendered passive against his will.

_I have given Lord Eddelbreck my word to aid his freemen and protect his farmlands. My father called him friend, I hope I will not regret trusting that as a good measure of the man's credibility. He is the master of Feravel Plains, and by all means a powerful man, which I hope shall further my support in the region. What is your opinion of him?_

Loghain can't deny that she's entangled herself in a bit of a mess with that choice, however sensible it is in the long run. Eddelbreck is honest and decent, two traits that have never won any conflicts.

Loghain sits back, rakes a hand through his hair and continues reading.

_There seems to be a passage leading to the Deep Roads from the cellar in the keep. We are headed down to investigate it further come tomorrow – the dwarves here are mad about their explosives and have been delighted to get a chance to test them. The passage is supposedly caved in, but the darkspawn must have found a way to use it._

_All stories I hear from people around here tell the same thing – there's a new form of darkspawn evolving, a different kind. They seem capable of strategy so my guess is that they can figure out how to open and close old passages, too. I've sent word about these findings to Alistair and my brother._

_I want you to come to Amaranthine, Loghain. With the situation unfolding the way it does, you are better suited to help us here. I have already ordered Hawise to travel to Gwaren and take over your current responsibilities._

_Elissa._

Loghain folds the letter, definitely in agreement with the order to go to Amaranthine sooner rather than later which is what they had decided before they knew anything about the events there.

Gwaren fares well, there is no doubt about _that_ : the ranks are growing, the rebuilding is under way and the life here has gradually taken on the shape of daily grind, its routines settling down and becoming fixed points. It would be simple for Loghain to hand it over to Hawise, he decides, pretending in vain there is no other motivation beside the growing darkspawn threat for him to go to assist Elissa.

It's a bit too late for those kind of defences to be rebuilt, of course. Too late to convince himself – or _her_ , Maker help him – that he is indifferent or passionless as he has given in to his own desires now, allowed his feelings to surface. Not that he is inclined to set about defining what those feelings _are_ or may become if he doesn't put an end to it.

He has his limits, still.

Good for you, Maric says snidely in his head. Nothing beats the pleasure of a firm limit.

She's too young, Loghain protests. Even now. Even with the memory of her touch and her scent, the memory of her taste that keeps him company during the nights when the snoring that thunders through the walls is startling him awake - he is nothing if not aware of the very real fact that she is too bloody _young_.

Too young for _what_? Maric retorts.

And Loghain has no answer so he cuts off that line of reasoning entirely, returning to his duties.

The second letter in the pile is of a more unusual nature, he notices immediately as the seal breaks. It is the first response Loghain has received so far from Elyon, the chevalier from Orlais who is said to serve the Wardens. It's been a long time since his request for information – long enough for Loghain to have dismissed the man as a fraud or an idiot – but here it is, proof of his existence, if nothing else.

His letter initially tells the same thing as Elissa's: there is a growing belief among Wardens and ordinary people alike that states that the darkspawn have changed. Like Elissa, Elyon writes about unusually organised attacks on strategically important locations and like Elissa, he says that the impression is that they are searching for something specific rather than mindlessly raiding the surface.

It's the second half of the letter that truly worries him; Loghain re-reads it twice.

_Lately, the Order is in distress. A large group of Wardens – well over fifty - has disappeared mere weeks ago. They set out to track unusual activity near a mountain pass and never returned. Large forces of chevaliers were sent after them but they returned empty-handed. While this alone is no cause for alarm – Wardens disappear all the time, after all – the rumours in the ranks state that it was a voluntary escape. It is now a commonly held belief among some of the fractions of the Order that Wardens are collaborating with the darkspawn, down in the Deep Roads. It seems unlikely that so many Wardens can be taken against their will._

_It also appears the First Warden is calling all Warden-Commanders to a meeting – not in Weisshaupt, which is reason enough to suspect there is something out of the ordinary going on - but in Val Rouyeax. As you may know, he rarely leaves his fortress. There are many political implications of such a gathering, of course. We have yet to see the First Warden arrive, however, which is puzzling._

_Because of this thought meeting, The empress is busy reaching out in diplomatic endeavours. She does not take kindly to being outmanoeuvred._

Loghain reaches for the tea on his desk but quickly puts the too-cool cup down again, and leans forward on his elbows. The words below him on the tabletop blur in that surge of frustration this entire situation evokes in him. It makes him feel trapped, left at the mercy of whatever scraps of information this contact can offer – and forced to assume that said contact is offering truths rather than fabricated lies serving some scheme of his own.

To be at the mercy of _Orlesians_. He grimaces to himself.

And the heart of his discomfort is the knowledge that there is so remarkably little he can _do_. There is a helplessness in it that he cannot recall having felt since he was a very young man, if ever. He has always taken charge, no matter the circumstances. Right after the Joining Loghain had been distinctly aware of his alienation from the rest of the Wardens, the role as a stranger in his own country marking him and his decisions during those weeks and all the months afterwards. It had been a slow, tiring trudge at times – but he had been in a position to act, to chose the shape and meaning of his actions.

Now he is writing _letters_ ; he is a man of action forced behind a desk, while the lines he is meant to defend are falling apart around them and he doesn't even know why, let alone how to prevent it from happening. There is a bitter taste to this, to forfeiting his only task.

As a general he has never, for better or for worse, been in favour of waiting the enemy out.

Before he even reads the next letter – Anora's, brief as usual and boils down to the fact that she wishes to see him in Denerim if he has the time - he has formed the course of action in his mind.

"Iera," he calls as he heads down the stairs.

She is sorting through the armour in the stands in the hallway, hanging up a breastplate properly before turning around to look up at him, curious and somewhat excited.

"Yes?"

"Tell Fendrel to prepare my horse for departure. And find the mabari." Loghain eyes her, going over his impressions and opinions of her once more in a hasty final evaluation of her, before he adds: "I will ride to Denerim today. You are in charge here until Hawise arrives. Understood?"

"Yes!" Iera nods, fervently. Then she catches hold of herself and smiles. "I mean, _yes_. You got it."

Loghain nods back, curtly, before turning on his heel and ignoring the feeling that he is making a rash decision.

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With all the additions ordered by the last arl, the Vigil is larger than Highever castle, Elissa observes, as she stands on one of the spacious balconies attached to the larger bedrooms on the second floor. It's such a wasteful way of alienating the commoners, her father says in her head, in one of his rare comments about Howe that weren't painstakingly neutral. But to each his own, pup.

It's barely morning outside. The raw air of late summer – ripe and heavy and cold at the same time, carrying a promise of decay, of transformation – and the slight wind makes her huddle under the blanket she's wrapped in.

Sleep has proven to be somewhat of a mystery, lately.

Elissa is only grazing the surface of the Fade, it seems, floating above it without being grounded in the heavy, treasured oblivion of sleep. And if she succeeds, she wakes to strange nightmares of Broodmothers and dragons that seem to melt into each other and all of them are talking, nonsensical words aimed for her but she doesn't understand what they're saying and snaps out of her dreams sweaty and worn down, tangled in her sheets.

Perhaps, she thinks, it's the keep itself. All the ghosts of this place playing tricks with her mind.

She leans over the bannister and looks down over the courtyard, over the large grounds that will be full of people in a few hours and over the gates and stone walls that look deceptively impenetrable in all their might. Yet most of her weeks her so far have been filled with endeavours to strengthen them, fortify the stone.

She has never liked Vigil's Keep.

Her father had forced her to come here a few times as a girl, humouring the dull Howe children in their stiff, peculiar home. Elissa had found Delilah childish and shy, fonder of dolls than swords and Thomas - the horrible little fool who always made scenes - was nearly insufferable. They had played kings and rebel down here in this courtyard, she recalls, and Thomas had started shrieking like a banshee when Elissa conquered his spot of land, then sat off chasing her with his much cherished practising rapier until he tore a sleeve off her dress. She had returned that offence by throwing the rapier down the well and smacking Thomas' face so hard he walked off with a nosebleed.

What a little spitfire, Howe had said, indulgent and amused while her own father had berated her all the way home.

The memories of this place rise in her with a sharp taste of bile these days.

When the chill becomes too much, she returns inside but decides it's hopeless to lie down again. Slipping into a longshirt and leather trousers, Elissa sneaks out in the corridor and down the stairs. Vigil's Keep is less overbearing when it's quiet like this, when the empty spaces in its many rooms seem natural rather than alarming.

Unfortunately, she is not alone this early morning. On her way to the kitchen to collect something to eat, she runs into Nathaniel who is carrying a plate of bread and cheese himself. According to Oghren, this is not an unusual occurrence – he claims Anders sleeps like a baby and snores like an army of dwarves whereas Nathaniel is often seen anywhere but in his bed. Then again, Elissa thinks with an inward sigh, Oghren has not been sober for many hours straight since he became a Warden and his judgement isn't something she would put a lot of trust in.

She observes the man in front of her without slowing down her steps and as Nathaniel steps to the side to avert a collision, he looks back at her. She comes to a halt. In the corner of her eyes, turning to face him, she notices he has stopped, too.

"Commander," he says, in a clipped tone.

"Nathaniel." She raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't you sleep at all?"

"I could ask the same of you, Commander." That barely well-mannered tone again, that makes no secret of how very little he thinks of her. Not that he has any particular reason to sing her praise, Elissa admits. She is the Duncan in Nathaniel's story and she cannot fault him for hating her for _that_. But Nathaniel is slyer than she ever had the chance of being; Elissa is aware of how he looks at her. How he builds defences between them with equal parts reserve and – she suspects – a burning desire to plot her death. On Anders' half-serious advice, she is still most definitely watching her back. A Howe is a Howe.

"I sleep," she says dryly. "No need to worry for my well-being."

He seems to struggle with the desire to scoff at that – like he seems to want to scoff at most anything she says or commands. Somehow the Nathaniel in her recollection is different than this even if she can't claim to truly have known him at all. Nathaniel was never a part of their childhood games and in her memory he is forever the sullen older brother, too sombre for Fergus' taste and too concerned with being caught to actually do something interesting.

As a grown man, he is much the same.

As a grown man, he has lost everything and needs both scapegoats and excuses. She is almost alarmed at her own lack of pity for him.

To the victors goes the spoils, I suppose, he had said when she first spoke to him after his Joining. He had meant the smattering of his family's honour, their debris and belongings that she has sold or burned and Elissa – blind to all reason at the accusation of being victorious when her life had been wrecked to _ruins_ \- had shoved him up against the wall and promised him that if he ever spoke that way to her again, she would drive her sword up his arse.

Death threats are decidedly _not_ a good way to make friends with your Wardens, she thinks, glancing at Nathaniel who is holding his plate and returning her gaze with a hard glint in his eyes. While it had made Oghren laugh when she told him, she can hardly claim this is a good enough outcome to be worth it. It shouldn't be worth it, either way. Yet every time he raises an eyebrow in disbelief as she tells him about his father's crimes, every time he tries to convince her – and himself – that there were good reason for the slaughter, Elissa feels her mind flare up in white-hot rage, lashing out against him.

It's just so _difficult_ with Nathaniel.

Elissa takes another step towards the kitchen when he clears his throat pointedly, as a way of drawing her attention.

"I hear Loghain is expected shortly," he says; he's looking at her as though he has asked a question, his eyes challenging.

"He is," Elissa confirms, still feeling Loghain's name in her body where the new possible meanings of it has not yet settled and always cause a stir. He is there, at the back of her mind and the pit of her stomach, a presence in blood and thoughts and she feels oddly protective of it – of him – as she guards herself and closes around her secrets.

Nathaniel doesn't let her off the hook, however. His gaze is dark and demanding, the apparent composure in his face nothing more than badly hidden fury. She wonders briefly what their fathers would make of them, if they could see their children now. Elissa who is past grief, hardened and tired and Nathaniel who is nursing his family's wounded pride like a scar from a prestigious battle, hiding behind it to avoid the weight of it on his shoulders.

Two doubtful heirs to the long line of family pride and honour that war and rebellions had twisted beyond recognition before they were even born.

"There is one thing I don't understand, Commander."

She sighs. "And that is?"

"Why Loghain is different," Nathaniel says, simply and clearly in a way that suggests he has been pondering this before. "Loghain condoned my father's crimes. He seized the lands of those who disagreed with him and started a civil war. From what I heard, he had his men slaughter opponents in the north. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"And yet his actions do not bother you?"

"When have I ever said such a thing?" Elissa frowns, pressing down the flurry of thoughts this discussion brings, the sensation of small daggers aiming for her heart and her mind at the same time. It is highly unnerving.

Nathaniel is quiet for a second, leaning against the wall. "He is a trusted general, is he not?" he half-asks eventually, already knowing the answer. "You have made him your second in command."

"Wardens do not act as judges," she says, rather condescendingly. "He has done what he has done. Now he is one of us."

"Is he a _different_ man then because he drank from the chalice? Is it that simple?"

In her head at times, she asks herself the same question and never finds an answer. It had been that simple when he was Ferelden's greatest general and his life was hers to use as currency in the final battle against the Archdemon. The cold facets of her brain had measured him against all scenarios she could imagine and drawn conclusions and decisions based on that. Loghain had been an asset, another body between Ferelden and the Archdemon and a skilled warrior who had surprised her by offering not only strength on the battlefield but also an understanding that she could scarcely imagine possible. He had seen her life for what it was and without many words or unbearable gestures he had made it a little less terrible, simply by being there. There is something in that – right at its core – that she can't even put into words. And he had shifted the scales somehow, making her question them.

Everything changes but everyone stays the same, her mother used to say. In the end you are only the sum of what you have done, those ineffaceable lines in your history and how you carry them, how they run through your life.

"He doesn't have to be a different man." Her voice is firm, betraying nothing of her doubt. "The Order values you for what you do, not what you are."

Nathaniel shakes his head; his expression goes sour. "You would have made a fine teyrn, Commander. It's all tall tales and empty words with you."

"What are you _really_ playing at, Nathaniel? Speak plainly or be quiet."

For the first time this morning, Nathaniel doesn't meet her eyes when she's talking to him. He is staring at the floor for a moment, before he looks up again.

"Did you offer my father a possibility to set things right?"

"I did not spare Loghain to offer him redemption. This isn't the bloody Chantry." Elissa can her the acid in her words, spitting them out like curses.

"Did you offer my father the same choice?" Nathaniel presses on, the corners of his mouths twitching in the stern grimace.

Elissa shakes her head. "He gave me no chance."

"Would you have done so if he had given you one?"

"No." She looks at him, straight into his eyes, empties herself of malice and sarcasm and offers him a moment of absolute truth. He nearly startles as she locks their gazes. "Never. Your father was _nothing_. Even if I had been willing to overlook what he did to my family, he would have been of no use to me."

"It's all about usefulness then?" Nathaniel looks somewhat taken aback with her harsh pragmatism. He may be his father's son, but Elissa is no longer her father's daughter.

"No." She shrugs. "But you are asking me what the difference was between two men who have committed monstrous crimes. And I gave you my answer. Loghain, for all his faults, is a great man. Your father was not."

There's a pained shadow mingled with something even darker and more dangerous floating across Nathaniel's face as he snorts. "Thank you for being honest, if nothing else. _Commander_."

"Of course." Elissa squares her shoulders as she turns on her heel and walks away. "Any time."

* * *


	29. A better fate than wisdom

**A/N:** Please note that this chapter is NSFW.

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"No, father, you may _not_ bring the mabari."

Dog, who is sitting at Loghain's side in the doorway, makes a small noise that sounds much like a derisive snort, but when Loghain steers him away with a little push of his hand, the dog accepts, slinking back out in the corridor. The Queen of Ferelden watches with a frown. Aside from the kittens she _insisted_ on as a child, Anora has never been fond of animals.

"Anora," Loghain greets her informally in the privacy of her office. "Why did you wish to see me?"

After a moment's pause she walks towards him, slowly enough for him to get a decent chance at looking her over. Something is different: she is pale and unsettled; even beneath the worry there's a deeper change, a rift in her composure. Pushing back irritated concern, he wonders if it's the political turmoil of the Thaw – or what _ought_ to have been a Thaw but isn't quite – or more personal reasons behind it.

"Are you staying in Denerim for long?" Anora asks instead of responding to the question. It's a strategy he has taught her and, of course, it promptly drives him mad when she uses it on him. She gestures for him to sit down before she seats herself behind the desk, glancing at a pile of opened letters on the tabletop.

"Not at all." Loghain leans back in his chair. "I came here to survey the Orlesians and pick up a few things before I leave for Amaranthine."

"I understand."

"What is the problem?" he asks, when she still doesn't indicate any willingness to elaborate on her reasons for wanting to see him.

Anora sighs quietly. So quietly, Loghain thinks, that he only notices it because she is his daughter. She knows the value of composure and of remaining shielded in it - even in this room with no witnesses, she is regal but for the small flickers of emotion prickling the surface of her face. When she speaks, her tone is level.

"The Empress is pulling her strings," she says. "Our diplomats and spies all give reports of a highly increased political activity in Orlais and beyond. Do you know what is happening in Tevinter?"

"I hardly know more of these matters than you do, Anora," Loghain says, thinking that he has spent the past few months building stables and recruiting farmers' children. Thinking, too, that Anora is well aware of this. Howe was the one who had been in contact with the Tevinters, conjuring up contracts and propositions that Loghain had signed with the same lack of enthusiasm as he hadd signed everything else that year. They made profit from it and that is all he knows about the current state of the Imperium. "You tell me, what _is_ happening in Tevinter?"

"Nobody knows."

"I see." He raises an eyebrow, irritable and impatient. This is not the daughter he raised, not this woman who is speaking in unfinished statements and questions without possible answers. The Anora he knows would handle these simple, unimportant matters in her correspondence, if at all.

"What gives me reason to worry is that the Empress has massively increased the defence of her borders," Anora continues.

"She might fear the darkspawn." Loghain suggests.

"She might." Anora sounds unconvinced, spreading her hands in her lap and giving a slight nod. "Or she fears something else entirely."

"This is merely speculation, Anora." He looks at her frankly, trying again to find the motivations behind this odd and uncharacteristic way of moving in circles around the subject. "What do you _know_?"

Even the lines in her face are drawn differently, Loghain thinks, frowning. She seems unlike herself in many ways and he cannot escape the thought that there is something decidedly private that bothers her. She wets and purses her lips and keeps her gaze firm in his own.

"I know that Wardens are disappearing, father. And I know that the Empress is taking action. When Alistair returned from Amaranthine, he told me that there are a new kind of darkspawn attacking now." Her voice changes, hardens. "Wardens are being summoned to Orlais, is that not true?"

Loghain nods. "It is, it seems."

"Have you been?"

"Summoned?" He raises an eyebrow. "I have not."

"I see." She seems to relent a bit at that assurance, sinking back in her seat. Between them in the hollows of every word she doesn't speak lie a thousand unmentioned implications of this, implications neither of them will ever have the right to bring up. There are so many promises she can't demand of him and just as many lies he doesn't want to tell unless forced to. The Anora he knows and raised would not accept them, would never need them.

"Anora, I do not have time for idle chatter," he says, sharply. "The Commander is expecting me in Amaranthine and if there is nothing of actual importance you wish to tell me, I shall be on my way now."

"Very well." She nods, despite the tiny grimace of hesitance in her face.

"Yes?" Loghain asks, to confirm that he has been dismissed. When she does not say anything to contradict it, he gets to his feet. Then, as he is about to leave, Anora suddenly reaches out a hand, clasping his arm.

"We're expecting a child, father."

For a second Loghain thinks he has misunderstood her rather rushed confession because he finds the idea so strange, has almost given it up after her barren marriage to Cailan. But then he scrutinizes her again and eventually he finds a thread of familiar signs leading back over thirty years into the past. The same shadows of illness and unease tearing at Anora's skin, the grey ghosts of nausea and exhaustion. Celia had once said that being with child was a quiet plague and she had also, Loghain recalls now, been bedridden for large stretches of time during those first months, becoming pale and thin.

Anora looks at him, urgently. He realises he has not yet said anything.

"That... is good news," Loghain can feel a smile form on his lips. He presses her hand that is still resting on his arm. "Eamon cannot get to you now."

For five years that had often been on Loghain's mind - on Anora's too, he suspects, even if she rarely spoke of it - and he finds that it still is, if not quite as much. He finds, too, that it's easily overshadowed by other emotions at this announcement.

"Indeed not, not if all goes well." Her eyes glitter and she smiles, too, a bit weakly. "I wanted to tell you. Before you leave. I thought you would want to know."

"Of course." Loghain nods. "I'm glad."

A child.

She is the Queen of Ferelden and the child she carries is the heir to Calenhad's throne, yet Loghain still remembers her best as a six year old girl, furious and unruly one moment, only to throw her round child-arms around his neck the next. Her toothless lisp and her hard little fists slamming against him when he had carried her out of the armoury again, explaining to her once more that she could not play in there.

Ever since she was born, Anora has been his roots. The constant thing in his life – no matter what he did to himself and others, he was always her father and he _loved_ her, even when she pronounced him a monster, even when he was one. Though he did nearly nothing to honour this fatherly love over the years, it was _there_. It reminded him of other duties, other lives, softened the edges of his sharp contours and brutally defined lines.

And it still does, he thinks as she is in his embrace a moment later when he is already half-way out the door and Anora feels too _small_ in is arms, feels cold and thin and unsteady.

He holds her a little closer.

.

.

.

.

Loghain arrives at the Vigil in the middle of the day, after a brief but heavy downpour that has left the ground dark and glittering. He arrives to a keep that is bustling with activity but he is, more than anything else, struck by the lack of soldiers. Elissa has written about it – even implicitly asked for his advice on how to best employ the happy few that still remain to serve the Arlessa of Amaranthine – but this underlines her words rather dramatically. Apart from a few armoured men carrying weapons from the blacksmith to what Loghain supposes is the main armoury, the rest of the workers in the area are merchants and craftsmen and servants of various kinds.

He notices as well that everybody in the courtyard is looking at him as he dismounts his horse and leads it through the inner gates, Dog strolling happily behind.

This is not a part of Ferelden Loghain has frequented in his life and yet he is aware that every single man and woman in this place knows exactly who he is and most of them, he suspects, have a firm opinion of him as well. Not that this differs much from the rest of the nation – although it is more _conspicuous_ here, where Rendon Howe's reign drove people apart and caused a rift between those who were loyal to his power schemes in the hopes of being rewarded and those who were not. Loghain had stripped many of the nobles branded as traitors of their lands after Ostagar, agreed to let others die in ways Howe had seen fit. Now the other half of the arling has been punished, too, of course.

There is very little reason for _anyone_ in Amaranthine to look on Loghain with approval.

As he shoulders his saddlebags and walks across the grounds, he's feeling intensely aware of this fact.

Inside, there is a small group of people involved in a private discussion of some kind, a young maid who curtseys as Loghain walks by her and a man his own age who introduces himself as the seneschal, Varel, and calls for a couple of servants to fetch the luggage. Loghain remembers the name Varel but not much else about him. He wonders what the other man remembers.

"The Commander is to be expected shortly," he says curtly as Loghain asks. Nothing else.

And within minutes, Elissa is there with them. She bursts in through the main doors followed by a tall, blond mage who gestures wildly as he speaks to her; from the distance Loghain can't tell if the expression on Elissa's face is one of amusement or exasperation. Fully clad in armour she looks like she's been in battle or at least _expected_ battle whereas her companion, in stark contrast to that, is holding a kitten against his chest with one hand. Elissa shakes her head a little at something he says, perhaps she responds in a voice too low to carry. Whatever their conversation, it is clear that the mage wishes to continue it when Elissa looks up, her eyes meeting Loghain's.

Quickening her pace, she is soon right in front of him. And in front of Dog who is leaping up to lick her face, a move that would fell most people – Elissa merely hugs him back with an enthusiasm mirroring the mabari's before letting him out of her arms and watching him run off to explore the new surroundings.

"Loghain." She smiles – quick and impersonal – and it is unearthing something hastily buried in him, flicking it up to the surface like it was never missing at all. He unfolds his arms and nods.

"There you are."

"Here I am," she says; her voice is warm. There is something in her posture or even her face that seems new - a gravity and earnestness in her, things that were there before but that Amaranthine has brought out; a new sense of responsibility that runs deeper. Leadership looks good on her, he thinks but doesn't say it because the mage is giving him a strange look, one that carries what seems to be jealousy. Loghain nearly frowns. It must have been decades since any man has looked at him that way. "I take it the journey went well?"

"It did," Loghain nods.

Elissa hesitates for a moment, her gaze not leaving his but her expression and motions are frozen. Then she leans forward, shifting, and the sternness melts away.

"It's good to see you," she says, placing her hand on his arm and giving him that fleeting smile again.

"And you," Loghain replies, realising how much he means it.

The mage observes them both, visibly intrigued but preoccupied with the kitten. Elissa doesn't pay him any attention.

"I need to change out of this armour. My breastplate requires some adjustment before tomorrow's journey." She nods towards her chest – Loghain instinctively avoids looking and it makes the corners of her mouth twitch. "Do you need anything? A bath? A meal?"

"I'm fine."

She gives him the sort of glance usually reserved for those brief conversations after a battle when she suspects he is hiding injuries or deliberately omits information of his condition. He almost laughs. Nobody can accuse her of being gullible.

"Wait here, it won't take long," she says eventually. "Then I'll show you the keep."

Loghain watches her turn on her heel and set off in the opposite direction, vaguely aware that the mage is keeping his eyes on him as he does so.

"Now that is just _unfair,_ " he says in a ridiculous drawl of a voice, once Elissa is out of sight.

"What is?" Loghain asks, deeply uninterested to hear the answer but deciding that uncomfortable silence is even less tempting.

"How in the Maker's name did you _do_ that?"

"I beg your pardon, mage?"

"It's Anders." He looks as though he contemplates holding out a hand for Loghain to shake, but catches hold of himself and remains where he is, fondling the kitten and glancing up, boyishly. "This ferocious little fellow is Ser Pounce-a-lot. Yes, he _is_. Anyway. No offence, my er, fellow Warden, but you're... well, _old_. And didn't you try to have her killed? And help Uldred destroy the Tower?"

"I hardly see how any of these things you speak of are connected," Loghain says, feeling immensely old in this man's company. He wonders if there is something genuine behind these inane insinuations and dislikes how the thought of _that_ causes a rumble, deep beneath the crumbling walls of self-preservation.

Anders crooks a finger behind the kitten's ear and lets out a little cooing sound before returning his attention to Loghain.

"The Commander," he clarifies. "Making eyes at you. _I_ certainly haven't seen her like that in the weeks I have known her. She's a serious woman, that one, all work and no play."

Loghain stifles a groan. In a way, the mage reminds him of Maric - a younger incarnation, eager as a puppy and clumsy as one, too. With a nagging, persistent voice that could cut through any moment of peace and quiet with its constant stream of inquiries and stories and – much too often – pure speculation and gossip.

"What is your point?" he asks.

"That she never smiles at me the way she just smiled at you." Anders looks almost patiently at Loghain as though he's a slow child.

"That, however, is not saying much," Loghain mutters, pushing the pathetic flush of odd pride back into the darkest corners of his mind.

Anders chortles. "Ah, so you both have that gruff and mean thing going on. Charming."

"We both know the Commander would break your staff if she heard you speak of her like that." Loghain looks at the kitten who gives a hiss.

"Yes, probably," Anders agrees, stroking the kitten's head soothingly with two fingers. "But you wouldn't tell her, would you?"

Suppressing a sneer, Loghain raises an eyebrow as he looks at the other man. "You really don't know much about me, do you?"

"Other than the Uldred thing and the regent thing? Not much no."

"Fair enough," Loghain says, dropping the subject as Elissa returns, attired in leather trousers and a tunic. At the sight of her Anders smiles knowingly - which also reminds Loghain of Maric and of Maric's way of being smug in ways only _he_ found subtle. Thankfully, Elissa seems oblivious to it.

"Come on, walk with me." The scent of her – leaving Loghain momentarily speechless – brushes past him as she puts a hand on his elbow and leads him towards a side door, turning her head before they leave. "See you at supper, Anders."

"The mage," Loghain begins but lets his voice fade as Elissa smirks, looking straight ahead and holding the door for them both.

"Anders? Yes, he can be insufferable." She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and shoots a sidelong glance at Loghain. "Brilliant healer, though. And compared to Nathaniel - _Well_."

It's her turn to cut herself off and Loghain doesn't mention it, but a little touch of the loneliness she must feel here slinks through her words and into him. He doesn't know much more than what little she has told him in her letters but the name alone, not to mention Rendon Howe's fate, is certainly enough to draw conclusions from.

As the space around them narrows into a long corridor with open doors and soft, murmured noise coming from the small rooms, Loghain feels his own determination narrow as well, shrink pathetically into a tiny conviction a mere step away from nothing at all. It had been simple in Gwaren and in Denerim to tell himself that whatever it was that came over them that night, it was just a folly, a mistake he does not intend to repeat. Here those fragments of her – holding her, kissing her, having her on top of him with that triumphant bloody grin on her face - slip through and form themselves into vivid images again. It's revolting to find himself so easily swayed, Loghain thinks, shaking his head. He is too old; it has been so long since he longed for anything and the effect on him is horrible, _draining_.

"We're travelling west to Knotwood Hills tomorrow morning," Elissa says eventually, in a tone that doesn't match his thoughts at all. It's casual, if forcedly so, and she keeps walking, pointing out the kitchen and the servants' quarters to him while they pass. "There's a chasm there, thought to be leading down into the Deep Roads."

"I see."

"We have provisioned for a week's journey. Varel keeps the business running here while we're gone." Elissa's gaze lingers on him, waiting for something. Loghain nods.

"This is the finding you told me about, is it not? About the cave full of darkspawn?"

"Yes."

They don't say anything for a while as they walk up the stairs to the second floor.

Passing through the door leading out to the battlements, they almost collide with a guard, which causes Elissa to barge into Loghain's side; for a brief moment he holds her, to prevent her from falling and when he does that, everything seems to come to a halt around them. He feels her arms under his hands and her body mere inches from his own; she takes a step to the side, clearing her throat.

"Thank you."

Loghain walks after her to the ballista where she stops, looking down over the courtyard that is fully visible from there. From the side, he studies her as much as he can without staring, trying to sort through his own impressions and emotions as she suddenly turns to him, smiling properly now.

"Loghain, I..." she says when two knights have nodded their greetings and passed them, rounding the corner. "I mean. I've-"

She's interrupted by a loud sound of metal crashing down on the ground and they both lean forward to find the source. It's a dwarf – Oghren, Loghain realises after a mere second – who has managed to wreak havoc in the small smithy the blacksmiths from Denerim have set up in the courtyard. While the dwarf has always appeared to be walking a thin line even for someone they pulled out of Orzammar, he seems worse off now than he ever did during the final steps of the Blight.

" _Great_ ," Elissa says under her breath. "How unusual."

"Is he drunk on the battlefield, too?" Loghain asks, still observing Oghren who crawls to his feet and roars something inaudible to nobody in particular; then he seems to be stumbling over his own shadow, falling into a bush a bit further away. Elissa groans when Loghain looks at her.

"Yes." She folds her arms across her chest. "He nearly got himself killed a few days ago. I've banned him from partaking in battle ever since."

"Wise."

Loghain has seen enough drunkards in the ranks over the years to never be surprised at the foolishness men – this particular idiocy seems rare among women, especially women in the army – believe they will get away with. Wielding blades among your brothers in arms while barely being able to stand upright is an unforgivable crime, dwarf or not. He has never tolerated it; a soldier is a tool, no more and no less and as such it needs to be able to do its work.

"I don't know what else I can do," Elissa admits.

"Either he stops drinking or you put him on permanent stable duties." Loghain shrugs. The dwarf is not enough of a fighter _or_ a man to merit much attention. "If he endangers your life or anyone else's, you cast him out of the Order."

At his own words – the possibility of the reckless idiocy of others placing _her_ in danger – Loghain feels something tighten into hard steel inside him.

"He'll drink himself to death," she says. If it's a protest, it is a meek one.

"Likely, yes."

Elissa sighs as a shadow crosses her face. "Right."

Gazing out over the small shapes down on the ground for a while longer, she looks very young; Loghain feels a now familiar stab of affection for her, for the situation she's in and the responsibility she must carry. He wants to say something but before he has found suitable words for it, she tears herself away from the scene and continues walking.

"Have you dug any deeper in the conspiracy against you?" Loghain asks, when she doesn't bring it up herself. They are walking downstairs again, headed towards the other end of the keep and a door that leads out to the courtyard in the back where the training ground is located.

"Liza Packton," Elissa says over her shoulder. "She and a few assassins were collaborating with Lord Guy. We tracked them down and dealt with them a few days ago."

In the chaotic nest of loyalties and bribery that Howe had brought with him, Loghain can vaguely recall the Packton family as one of those the former arl had bought with promises of land.

"Do you think they acted alone?"

"No."

"Any leads on the others?" He can't rid himself of the idea of the political situation in Amaranthine resembling a dragon's lair, where various dangerous beasts are brooding, awaiting a perfect moment to strike.

"Not yet," she says. "I figure I have enough time to worry about the nobility once I've dealt with the darkspawn."

Elissa stops at the inner walls, leaning against the stone with her face turned towards the sun that has broken through the clouds. Loghain stands beside her, watching Dog run among the handful of soldiers who are out here, sparring. They don't seem to mind.

She looks at him, squinting her eyes in the sharp afternoon light and smiling, which softens her face in a terribly appealing manner. He sighs inwardly; he wishes they were alone and at the same time he dreads that inevitable moment – sooner or later - when they will be. Being here, in the midst of her current chaos right at the core of Amaranthine's political drama, only reminds him of how fruitless and impossible anything between them would be, even if he gave in to it.

A great deal of the mess can still rightly be called his fault – she is picking up the pieces, clearing out the ghosts and bargaining with the survivors. Any connection to him that goes beyond what they have now would be political suicide, Loghain knows, and he is certain that she is fully aware of the very same thing.

He has no _intention_ of allowing himself this foolishness, but as usual she makes his thoughts reel, weaving new threads around the old ones.

"Perhaps we should... I mean-" Elissa suddenly averts her eyes as though she can read Loghain's mind; Dog barks happily as he comes running towards them and she seems happy not to have to finish the sentence.

"Commander?" A maid slips out through the door, looking around for her.

"Yes?" Elissa straightens up and Loghain isn't sure if he feels relieved or disappointed to be interrupted.

"The seneschal wishes to see you, Commander."

"Of course," Elissa says. "Show Loghain to his chambers, will you?"

"Yes, Commander." The maid curtseys.

Elissa lets her gaze linger on him for a second, a bright little flicker in her eyes when her mind seems to settle on something or form an opinion or a course of action. When she walks away, Loghain all but reaches for her arm. She smiles as though she notices even though he remains motionless and he curses himself.

"I will see you at supper, Loghain," she says, softly.

.

.

.

.

As a young girl Eissa once saw a play performed in Highever castle – a tragedy, her mother had explained patiently – that was set around one single scene, a supper where every character in the play sat stern-faced around a table, being miserable in their own fashion. She had never understood why this merited the verdict _terribly_ _good_ , but she thinks now that tonight's meal at Vigil's Keep rather reminds her of it.

They sit at the long table in the dining hall, eating boar stew and cabbage with bread and cheese, washed down with red, spicy wine. Elissa is seated at the short side and flanked by Anders and Loghain. Then there's Nathaniel - tight-lipped and sour – and Oghren who is already half-asleep over his bowl, smelling like a brewery. She had asked Varel to join them earlier, but he had politely declined. She can hardly hold it against him.

"The wine is tasty, isn't it? Yes it is," Anders mumbles when the silence has lasted for several minutes into the meal. Elissa looks at him, thinking at first that he is addressing _her_ with that voice but realises that it's the kitten who is the object of his attention, as usual. It's perched on his lap, lapping wine off Anders' fingers.

Elissa frowns. " _Honestly_ , Anders."

He gives her an earnest look. "What?"

Nathaniel glares at them as well, his face scrunched up in a disapproving grimace. Since he went to see his sister, his behaviour has transformed slightly. Not necessarily for the _better_ , but it is a change nonetheless. Elissa can feel a new trail of guilt in his anger now, a distaste for her based not only on her name and her choices but also on the inherited shame Nathaniel's father brought to the family.

"We are leaving early tomorrow," she says, to say _something_ befitting a commander.

"Of course," Loghain responds, putting a piece of bread into his bowl, soaking it in the broth.

"We are always leaving early," Anders points out. He's not an early bird, Elissa has learned, and usually needs some brutal method for waking up. She keeps threatening to throw a bucket of cold water over his head and will, undoubtedly, fulfil this one day.

"Right. Darkspawn beasties." Oghren lifts his head and rises from his drunken slumber. "I'll show them!"

"No," Elissa corrects, taking two mouthfuls of wine before continuing. "You are not. Not tomorrow."

He stares stupidly at her. She has told him, Maker _help_ her, she has told him several time that he is not going anywhere with them until he sobers up and she hates him for making her repeat this, for making her humiliate him in public.

"You're not coming with us," Elissa explains again, watching him deflate in front of her eyes, like a child being lectured in front of his friends. Guilty conscience prickles at her heart, twists around a bit, like a dagger. In the corner of her eye, she can see Nathaniel shift position in his seat.

"Fine, fine." Oghren's chair-legs scrape against the stone floor as he struggles to his feet, unable to hide how much effort it requires to stand upright without slipping under the table. "Take sodding Miss Sparkle Fingers with you. See how _he_ handles a broodmother or two."

Elissa sighs, fighting the urge to bury her head in her hands. "Oghren, wait-"

But he has already stumbled out of earshot.

"Broodmothers?" Anders asks over his goblet.

"Large beasts that breed darkspawn," Elissa says, downing her wine and reaching for the decanter. "They dwell in the Deep Roads."

"Lovely. Can't wait to meet them."

"Yes, they are very lovely," she fills her goblet again, sipping the wine and glancing at Loghain who eats in silence. "Not much for talking and they smell like death but other than that..."

Nathaniel stares at her over his finished meal, spreading his hands on the tabletop and leaning back.

"So we are the only ones going, Commander?" he asks, letting his gaze travel from Loghain's face to her own, as always immune to her attempts at diverting awkward situations with bad humour and Alistair-like ramblings. She _really_ ought to stop doing that.

"Yes." Elissa nods, simply.

Nathaniel seems to be on the verge of saying something else, bridling as he empties his goblet and rises from his chair. "If you excuse me, I am going to bed now."

"Sweet dreams," Anders says, to which he receives no reply other than a grunt.

Silence falls. Elissa breaks a piece of bread and eats it without much enthusiasm. She knows Nathaniel finds her too harsh, even cruel sometimes. It is not a good verdict coming from a _Howe,_ especially not since she also remembers Varel's words from the other day, when she had asked for advice on the state of the nobility in Amaranthine. He had suggested taking advantage of Nathaniel's name, using it and him to reach the staunchest Howe loyalists – by no means a bad plan, Elissa had been forced to admit. It feels like – and is - a failure on her part that they cannot cooperate better and therefore it's up to her to find a way to do just that. Not tonight, though.

"He is a bit of a pompous bastard, that one," Anders says, crumbling small bits of cheese into near-dust and holding out his palm for Ser Pounce-a-lot to lick. On the floor Dog growls – all afternoon he has tried to convince Elissa that the kitten ought to be removed from the keep. Nothing so small should be able to move so quickly, he had argued. It is bound to be _terribly_ dangerous. Possibly a demon.

Elissa can't help but smile thinly, rubbing Dog's back with her foot. "Well. He has no reason to like me."

"You worked with his father, didn't you?" Anders looks at Loghain who is about to take a sip of wine.

"I did, yes," he says evenly, refusing to be drawn. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing." Anders holds the kitten to his chest again, wary of Dog's presence. "I just wanted to know if there was a reason for his extra brooding flavour of brood tonight. Well, apart from needing some good booze and a willing woman rather badly."

" _Anders_ ," Elissa warns.

"Yes, yes," he throws up his free hand in the air, in mock-surrender. "I'm just saying. Sometimes that _is_ all it takes."

Elissa glances at Loghain, giving a nervous half-smile that he meets with a curt nod and that Anders - Andraste help them all - picks up on instead, flashing her a grin. She looks sternly at him – trying to say _don't be ridiculous, of course it is nothing like that_ – and Anders looks away, still amused but at least he isn't commenting on it. One has to be grateful for small mercies with that man.

Not that they are giving him much to remark on. There _isn't_ anything, she tells herself but that has become a blatant lie now as they look at each other and only see fractious, half-hearted defences. In the ruins of those something else rises and the question becomes what they will do with _that_.

She takes a large swig of her wine again, noticing that Loghain does the same for once. And when Anders leaves – unusually quickly and early considering the amount of wine still left on the table – to tuck Ser Pounce-a-lot in for the night, as he says, only the two of them remain.

"I need more Wardens," Elissa says, tracing the edges of her goblet with a fingertip and looking at the table. "To balance these ones out."

Loghain gives a little sound of amusement – one of those not-quite-laughs she will forever think of when she thinks of him. "We will recruit many more," he says.

Elissa gazes up at him, smiling gratefully. He speaks in the same reassuring tone that she uses when she speaks to herself lately. When she tries to ground herself in Amaranthine, anchor her being here despite the importunate sensation of being a brief visitor, of not belonging, of being sought elsewhere and of being _hunted_. She walks around in the garden and on the battlements, making grand plans. There, over there in the sunny spot between the trees the kitchen servants will grow vegetables and herbs; next to Harren and Wade the merchants will open up their shops, perhaps one of the wealthier farmers will sell his crop there as well. She can find more rare volumes for their library, employ a Warden scholar to trace their Order's history in Ferelden back to the beginning.

In the small hours at the very edges of time where reality thins, Elissa can convince herself that she will last. That her mark upon the map will be a lasting one, not easily washed away. Then she has to evade another capturing attempt from the darkspawn or kill another nobleman who wants her head on a plate and another kind of order restored to the arling and it feels less believable, all of it.

"I'm glad you're here, Loghain." She says it before she has mulled it over, before she has restrained herself.

Loghain smiles for a second - an almost heartbreakingly honest smile - and she feels her chest tighten before he reaches for his goblet. She bites back another silly confession.

For two years she has accepted the order of things. She has changed, adapted, _transformed_ and placed her thoughts in new arrangements to fit the new circumstances. She has done it for so long now, so many times over and over; reinvention by force and necessity. Yet this is impossible: she cannot stop wanting it, wanting _him_ and these thoughts runs around her unchangeable, solid heart.

He reminds her of the memory of falling deep into a childhood story, of losing herself in fairy tales and legends and to have to climb up from the depths of them, forcibly remove her mind from the dreamlike illusion. And at the same time he is the complete opposite, because despite knowing all that she knows, despite not having a single romantic delusion left, Elissa looks at him and _knows_. The moment where she slips into his gaze and he returns it, unguarded, she knows.

Right now his eyes seem fixed on a spot on her throat, Elissa thinks, before realising that they probably are, that he is staring at the wound she got at Old Stark's farm.

"Poisoned dagger," she explains softly, pressing down on the bump on her skin with a finger. She wants him to do the same, to reach out and touch her, trace her scars. She wants it almost furiously. "Anders had to mend it without any poultices or antidotes. Itched for days."

Something passes over Loghain's face and she can see it even in the dusk that has settled in the mostly abandoned room, a bright, sharp shade of an unknown nature, of something _new_.

One goblet of wine later, they leave the table. Elissa can hear the echoes of her drinks in her head, in her blood, feels her too-light limbs battle her will as they walk up to the second floor. Loghain beside her and later in front of her, is quiet and composed, waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

"I assume you are prepared for departure?" Elissa says, wondering why she must speak of such unimportant things at _all_. Of course he is ready to leave in the morning, he has done this for longer than she has been alive.

"I am, yes." He says it without any discernible sarcasm, which unsettles her completely.

"Good."

"Have you replaced the chipped sword yet?" he asks, as they begin to make their way – as quietly as possible – through the narrow corridor and its many side doors. The doors to their separate chambers are open and servants still slink in and out, carrying towels and sheets. Varel keeps telling her they have too few maids, she rather thinks they are too many, being only dimly aware of _why_ she thinks so as Loghain stops right beside her, looking in the direction she keeps glaring at.

"I haven't," she half-whispers. Then she adds, looking at him sideways with a grin. "But I found a perfect helmet."

She's about to turn to Loghain, suggest that they go out to the balcony or to the battlements or anywhere less crowded by servants – she hasn't yet crafted an excuse besides _I want to be alone with you_ \- when she suddenly feels his hand on her back and his gaze searching for hers and she shifts position, hopeful and sceptical at the same time.

That's when Dog comes running, probably thinking himself a stealthy warrior as he covers the length of the corridor in rapid, soundless leaps; he intertwines himself with their legs, upsetting Elissa's balance and forcing Loghain to lean against the wall, clutching it with one hand. A second later, Dog still frenzied at their feet, Elissa finds herself holding on to Loghain's shirt, one of her hands grabbing hold of its front, crumpling it up and revealing a glimpse of his chest underneath. His free arm is holding her, too, gathering her against him.

Elissa swallows.

She doesn't know how to fight this. Not this close, not with the scent of him in the air around her and the warmth of his arm spreading along the side of her waist he is holding on to.

The wine may have dulled and slowed their bodies, but it has heated everything else until it runs like a fire in their blood – the shared blood and the beating hearts and the hot, sweaty fingers that sprawl and scramble over Loghain's arms and chest. He looks into her eyes suddenly, holds her gaze, and Elissa looks up at him without words when his lips catch hers in a long kiss, a hungry kiss that drives a moan out of her - or out of _him_ , she is no longer aware of lines and boundaries. The slight stubble that catches in her hair, her fingers woven into the curls on his chest, their stomachs pressed up against each other and Loghain smiles again, almost in disbelief, a soft little motion around the corners of his mouth.

"Please," Elissa says or _begs,_ her voice raw and hoarse.

He nods.

They stumble into each other once more, deliberate and eager, taking a few steps to the side as though trying to orient themselves in this strangely clumsy dance. She makes him mutter something as she nearly drags them both to the floor; he accidentally pushes her with her shoulder first into a nearby door that opens with a creaking noise.

It's the upstairs armoury, where they keep bows and seldom used equipment.

Looking around, Elissa quietly orders Dog to remain outside, guarding the entrance, while pulling Loghain inside. The door snaps shut behind them.

She breathes with difficulty, she realises, as she slips her arms around Loghain's waist and he bends down slightly to kiss her and they're still not saying anything because what is there to say?

She wants him and he knows this – and if he didn't before he does _now_ , she decides as his hand caresses her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and she hisses like a cat.

He wants her too, she thinks half-deliriously, nibbling at his lower lip, running her tongue over its softness. Loghain groans, moving under her touch.

And this is the bloody _armoury_ and they ought to get out, find somewhere else, but she feels Loghain's chest against her own and her hands are spread over his back under his tunic and she has forgotten that the touch of warm skin can be this intoxicating, this desperately _wonderful_. Moving anywhere and breaking this connection suddenly seems pointless and wasteful. With one hand around his shoulder, pressing down on muscle and bone, she pulls him closer for a kiss and he deepens it as he spreads her out flat against the wall, clinging to her as much as she is clinging to him, clawing at everything that separates them.

She wants to take him to bed, wants to do it properly and thoroughly and with no hurry in case the moment never returns, but this – here and now and however it may be - this is what they _have_. Somehow it must be enough, she thinks as Loghain's hand tugs at the bottom of her tunic and she can feel his heartbeat in the palm of her own hand, draped over ribs and muscle.

Elissa presses her lips to the pulsating skin along his throat where he is warm and salt and his body responds to it, to _her_ , in a wild surge, an undercurrent in her bloodstream, and then his arms are around her waist and Loghain shifts his position, his hip grinding into her and Elissa finds herself pinned against the wall, finds that she cannot get enough of the sensation of being just that. He is all around her, she is enclosing him with arms and lips; they are trapping each other in this embrace, kissing and pulling, scraping their knuckles against the ungentle stone and she lets out a deep, low groan as he pushes his thigh into the very spot where she is all nerves and blood and impatience and _oh, please_.

Wrapping one leg around his waist, she urges him closer; she wishes for the first time in many years that she was smaller - thinner and slighter, a petite kind of woman - because there is so _much_ of them both in this cramped space. But Loghain makes her forget all of it as he pushes up between her legs until he's suddenly close enough, his lips on hers and his hands firm and steady on her body – one stroking her raised leg while the other has found the way under her damp, loosened tunic. Elissa bites down on the back of her own arm when she feels his fingers slipping inside her quickly unlaced breeches, when she hears Loghain grunt in approval at her thrusting, hurried want and when she helps him, _spurs_ him on, rocks against his hand until her mind finally goes blank, he kisses the side of her face, his mouth tasting of sweat when it brushes over her lips again.

She looks at him then, straight into his eyes that are only vaguely visible in the dusk of this room but where everything is dark, dissolved desire and it makes her knees go weak until he finds her again and raises her, holds her up against him.

They find each other in the dark, in the broken graces of her hand slipping inside his trousers, fumbling at the lacings and muttering a curse into his mouth as he cups the back of her head and kisses her until she is certain she will run out of breath.

They find each other in the quiet language of skin to skin, from the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach to the way his breathing goes heavy and quick as she takes him inside her and the rhythm morphs, increases, sends her arching back and biting down, his thumb in her mouth and her hands curled up into tight little fists in his hair.

They find each other in the aggressive tenderness of his hands slipping around the back of her head as he thrusts into her, slamming them both up against the wall; of her soft, gentle kisses over the angry marks of teeth and nails on his shoulder. In the way she flips them around so she is pressing him against the wall and the way his hands dig into her back as she does that, the way he pushes her up, close and _tight_ , holding her roughly and forcefully until she can feel the heat of him spilling out inside of her and he stills, his head resting in the curve of her neck.

Elissa lets her arms come around his body, slip under his arms and hold him to her as they pant, slowing down breath-by-breath like after a battle, waiting for the strength to return. When it does, she disentangles herself without speaking, without looking at him. She grants him the opportunity to do the same and he does. If he has any regrets she doesn't need to hear them – can't _bear_ to hear them.

It cannot _matter_.

It cannot matter, she reminds herself as they smooth out and adjust their clothes, that the room is cold and damp and smells of mildew. Or that she is hurriedly raking through her hair with her fingers, afraid that someone will catch her in the corridor as she sneaks into her bedchamber.

It cannot matter that Loghain reaches out, gently pushing her scrambling hands away before flattening her hair with his own fingers, running _his_ hands through it. Or that she smiles helplessly back at him before they part.

In a few hours they leave for the Deep Roads and right now, _that_ is what matters.

* * *


	30. Terra incognita

This group, Elissa concludes as soon as they've left the pleasant distractions and noises at Vigil's Keep behind, must surely be the worst combination of people she has collected so far. Not only is the silence between them like thick, oppressive heat but the few conversations that her group of Wardens do manage to sprout are horrendous or uncomfortable, usually both at the same time. They clash in unexpected ways, too – before midday Nathaniel is all but snapping at Anders whom he ordinarily can handle and Loghain is closing himself off entirely, ignoring the two other men's suspicion and searching gazes.

The open air doesn't offer any consolation either. There are no nooks or spare rooms to hide in, no mass of others to bear the brunt of frustrations; for most of the day the four of them walk in a stiff sort of silence, one that isn't natural and has very little to do with practicalities and everything to do with the fact that they simply do not _like_ each other enough to even try.

Of course, Elissa quite likes Anders. It is impossible not to – even if she doesn't like him as much or in the very specific ways he assumes – but it seems it won't be enough in this company. He walks by her side, whistling or cooing over that cat she almost regrets giving him.

"So, is it true that you ordered apostates to use blood magic on that possessed boy in Redcliffe?"

Elissa tries to remember the Tower, how the mages are locked up there from early childhood in that strange place and never really meet people. She tries to remind herself that mages are _bound_ to act like fools. It's just that she hasn't ever met a mage quite like Anders.

"Could you _please_ find a more suitable topic for idle conversation?" she half-sighs, half-commands.

"But is it true?" he persists, shooting her a fiendishly charming grin. There is something to be said about her weakness for these kinds of tricks, she thinks, losing patience with herself.

"Yes."

"Wow." Anders sounds like he had not believed in the rumours before, a little edge of something that can be either doubt or disapproval slipping into his voice. While it is simple to forget and equally simple to brush off as impossible, Anders is actually very serious-minded about magic, Elissa has learned.

She sighs, indulging him despite herself. "It was hardly my best decision. But the Circle had been overtaken by Uldred and we were running out of time."

Because of Loghain, she thinks, looking at the broad shape of his back in front of them.

Elissa brushes her hand over Dog's head in passing, as he returns to her side after a little detour to stare suspiciously at Nathaniel and be patted by Loghain. As has become his habit by now, Dog growls at Anders who protectively puts a hand around the inner pocket where he keeps the kitten during travels. From the bulge comes a little hiss.

"You know, Ser Pounce-a-lot, mages created mabari dogs," Anders says, still not understanding that irony transfers badly to animals or if he does, caring very little about it. "Maybe I could make _you_ just as smart as those stupid dogs."

Ser Pounce-a-lot meows appreciatively from inside the robes and Elissa tries not to think about how disturbing it is to have conversations with things inside your robes, no matter what it _is_. It seems like an area that was made to be silent.

I am not stupid, Dog tells her with a sad whine and a tilt of his head.

Of _course_ you aren't stupid, Elissa replies by rubbing his ears. You are the smartest mabari in all of Ferelden, you are.

Smarter than cats? Dog implores.

Smarter than both cats and most mages, she assures him.

Dog appears comforted by this and continues quietly by her side.

Though the clouds above their heads look threatening, they manage to go a full day without rain or any other nasty surprises, which makes them neglect rest in favour of covering the miles between the Vigil and Knotwood Hills. By sunset, they have reached their destination, such as it is.

In sharp contrast to the landscape they have travelled through, this looks like a scene from the Blight, complete with the barren trees and the scent of decay.

"Why is this area a wasteland?" Nathaniel says, almost to himself. He runs his hand over the leaves of a dried bush by the side of the road; around it there's a splotched surface of rotten, once-ripe berries. "It makes no sense."

"Darkspawn?" Anders suggests, standing closer to the bush to get a better view, as though the dead little piece of vegetation would hold any important answers.

"Maybe it's like the Blackmarsh?" Elissa says. It's a silly old childhood story, of course, but that place, the mythical marsh is rumoured to be haunted and hollowed out like a ghost town. Like the village in Highever that seemed to just have disappeared into thin air, she thinks with a slight shudder. She vastly prefers the childish ghosts to the suggestions that her adult mind offers. "We are headed there one of these days, so we should be able to compare."

Anders looks nonplussed. "The Blackmarsh?"

"The village there existed not that long before the rebellion," Loghain says from where he stands, behind Elissa, a few steps away with Dog circling around and between his legs, eager to be praised or at least acknowledged.

"Wasn't the local lady a baroness from Orlais?" Elissa looks at him, fighting the urge to smile at the sight of Dog practically glowing with joy when Loghain curls both hands in the mabari's fur, rubbing him thoroughly.

"She was, yes."

"I remember the stories my father told me -" Nathaniel cuts himself off, as though he just realises he had been making conversation but then decides he will have none of it. Elissa gives him a lingering glance, rubbing her neck. He meets her eyes and picks up the thread again in a different tone. "They said the baroness was a giant demon who had devoured them all."

"Right." Elissa nods, scrambling through her mind for phrases from hopscotch afternoons and huddled evenings in front of the fire with Fergus who had pulled her into his embrace and sworn to scare her witless before she could leave the room. "When darkness comes and swallows light..."

"Heed these words: the Baroness will never die," Nathaniel fills in, inclining his head. Something passes between them, something light as air and fragile as nothing else in the world but still undeniably _there_.

"Maybe she was possessed," Anders says, stifling a yawn.

"That is a ridiculous tale," Loghain snorts. "A far more likely explanation is that the villagers rebelled against her and she had them all killed. If anything haunts the marsh it is bound to be blight wolves and bereskern."

"I did not say I _believed_ in the stories," Nathaniel clarifies curtly.

Sighing, Elissa clears her throat.

"We have walked all day," she says, standing at the edge of the chasm with her legs wide apart and hands on her hips as she looks down and speaks to them at the same time. "Let's rest for the night. Whatever awaits us down there it can wait until morning."

"You want us to make camp _here_ , Commander?" Nathaniel's tone is a shade less hostile than normally even if his frown reinforces the familiar edge.

"Yes."

"We will fare better here than holed up down there." Loghain almost demonstratively places his shield on the ground.

"Anders and Nathaniel, you pitch the tents and scout the immediate surroundings." Elissa doesn't allow more reflections or protests, holding up a hand to underline her authority. It's almost uncanny how well these gestures flow in and out of her by now. "Loghain and I will gather wood."

Holding her gaze for a second, Loghain nods his acceptance of this command.

It drives her feelings into strangely spiralling _loops_ to be this wrapped up in duty and secrecy and _him_ all at once, with each one of those things so entirely separated. He is here and for the first time she is allowed that smile that is skimming right over the sharp edges of doubt and regrets, the glances weighed down and heated up by the memories of last night and the quick and ever-so-unintentional touch as they head together into the forest to gather wood. And at the same time there is also the rest of the bloody _world_ and how it so neatly has draped itself over her shoulders.

Anders watches them leave with a smirk on his lips. She had known it from the way he has been looking meaningfully at her all day, but this still confirms an uncomfortable suspicion, making her more self-conscious than she could have anticipated. Of course it doesn't mend matters that she's the commander and as such she hasn't exactly been distinguishing herself with her leadership qualities over the last few weeks. This – whatever it is and whatever it threatens to _become_ – will scarcely put her in a better light. One simply does not mend the wounds of a civil war by sharing a bed with the one who started it; even with her lack of regard for decorum and propriety, she realises _that_.

"Should I take the first watch with Nathaniel?" Loghain asks, undoubtedly sharing her thoughts on the topic.

"Yes," Elissa says, smiling warily to herself at the way he always masks his own orders and statements with questions. She wonders if he truly thinks it a subtle method or if he is merely used to being around idiots.

"Very well."

Even out of sight and earshot from the others, it proves difficult to find their roles, conjure up the slightly mended but mostly intact shapes of the people they have been to each other for well over a year now. It's still so raw, like a fresh wound prickling at her skin and the possibilities and obstacles form endless mountains in front of them.

They gather wood and twigs from the ground, working quietly side by side in the yellow, sickly grass. Loghain doesn't say anything; she wishes he would. She is desperately far away from her element and Alistair had always _talked_ , even in the awkward not-quite-morning after their first night in the same tent he had been unable to stop the torrent of confessions and hopes and fears. Elissa had been secretly grateful as he put his own feelings into words and then promptly went on and did the same with hers. Loghain, of course, would never do such a thing - with him silence can mean both agreement and quiet contempt and she is never entirely sure she can tell those two apart. Crouching down beside him, Elissa feels his body as a warm presence in the otherwise chilly air, and as she reaches for a bunch of dry branches beneath an oak, her path intersects his and their arms cross mid-air.

She pulls back, instinctively. Loghain, in an odd fit of something akin to courteous behaviour, hands her the branches she was aiming for. When Elissa searches for his gaze with a sidelong glance, he looks away.

"You have been travelling the Deep Roads before," she says stupidly instead, returning to safer grounds. "So you know what to expect."

Loghain nods, the glint in his eyes telling her he is glad to be speaking of this too, instead of all other options. "Darkspawn, lava, deep stalkers and spiders," he summarizes.

"Giant spiders." Elissa tries to suppress a shudder but evidentially fails since Loghain lets out a snort. "Oh, because all of _your_ fears are of course perfectly sensible."

"They are."

"Right." She gives him a wry smile, quick and still somehow _shielded_.

He is a choice she made long before last night; all things that have happened between them have been choices - she is not young enough to think of her desires as something beyond control. It's just that she no longer recalls making the choice and thus has no idea how to undo it, how to loosen the bonds should she want to. And at this thought, there's a flooding sense of being caught. Trapped. Ensnared in a vulnerability that threatens to leave her stark naked and at someone else's mercy and in her mind she is abruptly sixteen years old again, crying as she pleads with her mother not to send her away to marry some old man she has barely even met.

Loghain watches her in silence.

"We should go back," she says, needlessly, thinking her voice sounds like it's coming from a great distance.

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There are some things, Loghain thinks as they trek down through the narrow, ill-boding passage, that one never quite forgets. The Deep Roads are one of them. Although it has been more than thirty years, he will never forget this sensation, this particular weight in his body. How the very surroundings down here encompass and trap you, _bury_ you in damp, grey stone with no single source of light. How it all somehow becomes a song and a rhythm, urging you on.

Last time he was this deep underground, he had been young and desperate and walked every inch with a sense of absolute despair tightening his throat and hardening his voice. The first thing that welcomes them in the underground this time around is a small horde of deep stalkers, followed by a group of genlocks. It's a simple enough fight and only stalls them for a couple of minutes.

"This place reeks of darkspawn," Nathaniel observes pointlessly as they descend further. He discards a broken arrow and tosses the quiver onto his back again, marching onward.

"Welcome to the Deep Roads," Elissa says, dryly. She walks in front of them with Anders who is lightening their path with a glyph of light swirling in his right hand.

They have only covered a short distance before they are interrupted once more by darkspawn – this time in company with a loud-mouthed dwarf who is being dragged away by one leg, kicking her capturer with the other and spitting curses as she's carried across the floor of these tilted corridors.

Elissa leaps into the fight within seconds, backstabbing the large hurlock who is forced to release the dwarf. It proves to be a good first move, since the dwarf, once she's regained balance and found her swords, is a masterful warrior. As Loghain tackles an emissary, he can see a flurry of four swords in the corner of his eyes and hear a crescendo of immediately synchronised voices and a second later the group of darkspawn is rather dramatically dead.

Once the dim noise of the battle fades, Loghain spots Elissa and the dwarf standing among the corpses, sizing each other up with the same kind of apprehensively delighted expression. They appear to be seconds away from slapping each other's backs.

"Excellent fight," Elissa nods.

"Yes. You too. Are you alright?"

"Not injured." Elissa confirms this by shouldering her swords again, straightening up. "You?"

"Already dead." The dwarf chuckles. "Well. Thanks for the assistance. I need to get back in there now, crazy as _that_ sounds."

Elissa delays the reply, probably pondering the statement and its implications. "You're headed for somewhere further inside the Deep Roads then?"

There's a brief moment of silence again before the dwarf nods. "Kal'Hirol, as a matter of fact. I think the darkspawn are breeding an army there."

Brilliant, Loghain thinks tiredly, striding closer to the two women. With the impending threat of the aftermath of that ill-fated ritual gone and the Archdemon dead, a darkspawn army is _exactly_ what Ferelden needs. He catches Elissa's gaze, feeling her silent agreement to the unspoken question.

"I'm the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden," she says. "I'd like to come with you."

The dwarf looks momentarily baffled before another oddly cheerful smile crosses her face. "Sigrun," she says, holding out a hand. "Legion of the Dead."

"Elissa."

"Should we get going then? The darkspawn don't wait."

"Actually, are we _sure_ about that?" the mage retorts in an annoying, whiny voice as they progress further down, deeper into the darkness of the stone. "I mean, have we asked politely or do we just assume-"

"Shut _up_." Nathaniel cuts him off and that, Loghain thinks, might the first and only time he has agreed wholeheartedly with a bloody Howe.

The rest of the forenoon – at least he assumes it's forenoon – is relatively free from dangers and darkspawn save a few flocks here and there. Once they breach Kal'Hirol's walls and manage to slink inside the magnificent structure, however, the beat in his head and chest picks up significantly. Elissa grants them all a moment to catch their breaths. Loghain observes her in an unguarded moment, looking over to where she's standing and, judging by the bits carried through the heavy air here, getting the basics of the fortress' history from Sigrun.

As they start moving again, Elissa stalks closer to him and adjusts her heavy helmet with a pointed little smile. He struggles to hold back an exasperated groan or a reluctantly amused grin – or possibly both. After a silent argument carried out in stern glances and sighs this morning, she had been putting her helmet on, as they got ready for departure. At first she had hesitated and Loghain had worried he would have to explain _why_ that stupid helmet suddenly seemed so important - or rather why he had allowed himself the idiocy of expressing it and then, as though she had only been teasing him, she picked it up and let it down over her head without a word.

It's as hopeless as he remembers, trying to hold to a strategy in the Deep Roads. While the enemy is predictable enough, their surroundings are far from it and Loghain finds it useless to even try to foresee anything. To fight down here is a quiet form of giving up. Giving in to the way the stone is made: darkspawn tunnels bleeding into dwarven-made passages and halls, winding roads leading into ornate rooms where he would only expect caves.

In a cramped tunnel they stumble across newly hatched monstrosities of a kind neither of them recognises. Sigrun stoops over one of the defeated ones, using a sword to roll it over.

"Well, _that_ can't be a good thing," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Darkspawn?" Elissa asks, looking from one face to another. Loghain is inclined to agree that it probably is, in some form, but before he has time to respond with something beside a nod, they are interrupted by the a roar of rapidly moving battle in an adjacent hall.

Then all the disadvantages of the Deep Roads come in to play at the same time.

In a large quarter where it seems likely that dwarves had practised trade of some kind when Kal'Hirol was inhabited by more than ghosts and darkspawn, they find themselves in a three-way battle - much to their surprise. Loghain quickly concludes that the smaller group of darkspawn seem tougher and stronger – and decidedly more organised – than the darkspawn that well up from everywhere around them, from all the small cracks in the stone and from behind every corner. But they fight each other, initially uninterested in the small group of Wardens.

"We should try to gain control over the bridge," Elissa says in a low voice. "They'll pick up on our scents soon enough but if we make it across we should be able to draw them towards the smaller passages and pick them off."

Loghain nods. This is no room for fighting large battles.

At first it goes well, making their way up towards the bridge without drawing too much attention, but then one of the stronger darkspawn gives a cry, having spotted them.

"You!" He roars, pointing his sword at Elissa. "All who serve the Architect must die! The Mother demands it!"

"The Architect?" Nathaniel asks, glancing at her.

"The Mother?" Anders frowns.

Elissa merely shrugs. "No idea."

"This is hardly the time for a _discussion_ ," Loghain snaps a second before the first darkspawn attack – from both sides of the bridge, no less, and everyone regardless of motivation, too, it seems.

For a while they manage to fight back to back with success, keeping a tight unity of shields and swords and magic in the very limited space; the conflict between the darkspawn ceases, however, and all attention is focused on the intruders on the bridge and not before long they are losing ground. Elissa orders them to keep pushing forward, seeing a possibility there that Loghain can't see and he's irritated with her for being so impulsive until he, too, notices that if they only manage to get off the bridge and fight their way a few feet to the left, they can get themselves to a decent spot of safety in a nearby room, keeping their backs safe. It will be much like running into a dead end, cornered by darkspawn, but it's an improvement over being stuck in the middle of a large space with enemies striking from every angle. With one of her swords raised, Elissa points out the direction and they snap into a new course of action.

As they are inches away from getting off the bridge with Elissa in front and Loghain as the last man, he feels the emissary's spell hitting his back before he has time to shield himself. With Anders busy casting healing spells in another direction Loghain has no defences at hand and is blasted off the bridge just as the other in front of him reaches the end of it. As the group of Wardens turn around, before heading into the nearby room and their best shot at getting through the battle alive, Loghain catches Elissa's gaze from afar for a fraction of a second, his mind spiralling as quickly and feverishly as the curse in his body. There's a whole field of enemies between them.

Before they are separated further by a new stream of darkspawn led by an emissary who nearly burns the staff out of Anders' hand, Loghain realises he can only hope Elissa will do what he would have done. He can hear her through the turmoil and for a second he is afraid she will order the rest of them into the battle as well, that she will come to his rescue like the gallant hero she can't afford to be and he would disrespect her for being.

" _Retreat_!" she calls louder, and he exhales."Pull back! Dog, come _here_!"

Loghain's companions make a hasty scrabble backwards as he is thrown further back in another direction by a hurlock and feels the spell losing power over him. Doggedly determined to at least _try_ to beat the odds, feeling a slowly burning frustration fuel his movements, he raises his sword again and leaps back into the battle.

It is difficult to say for how long they fight, separately and together, from their corners of the room.

Loghain only knows that he takes a severe blow to his side, manages to rise again and beats the attacking genlock to death with the flat side of his blade in a terribly unrefined fit of rage. Efficient enough, though, he thinks as he presses forward – the tiny sense of triumph lost again as he falls under a hurlock's blade and feels the ground slip beneath him, feels his head go blank and his limbs go numb. Around him the noise seems to fade and he hears himself gasp for air – deep, breathy sounds, near convulsing – and thinks it was a long time since he was this close to dying. Thinks it almost calmly, as though it is merely an observation.

Everything is drowned out after that, his skin peeled off and his bones washed clean in the painful surge of being pulled through the veil and over to the Fade – or at least that is what he assumes is happening until he forces his eyes open and realises that Elissa is kneeling beside him and that there's another shape behind her, raising its arms. Loghain blinks.

"Save it." He hears Elissa's voice, made taut and cut up by pain, by the sounds of it. "Heal him first."

"Commander-"

" _Anders_."

There's a rustle of fabrics and a clinking sound of metal indicating that they're all gathered around him; Loghain feels uncomfortably exposed.

"He fights magnificently for someone his age," the cheerful dwarf points out and Loghain tries to turn his head, a pathetic stab of irritation at her words – _someone_ _his age_ , indeed – but his body is merely a statue, immovable like the stone around them.

"Ouch," Anders says, a trace of amusement creeping into his voice. "You might want to stand far away from him once I cast the spell, Sigrun."

 _Idiot_ , Loghain thinks, not sure if he means the mage or the dwarf.

"Everybody, get moving. Nothing to see here," Elissa says, still affected by her own injuries if her voice is anything to go by. He wants to scold her, too, for foregoing Anders' magic for his sake, but he cannot find any words yet. His throat feels dry and hollowed. "Clean the place up and prepare to descend further."

In the relief of the tapering pain and the lack of audience, his body relaxes finally, his thoughts disappear and once more he sinks into the darkness only this time he does it with Elissa's hand curled so violently around his own that he nearly winces.

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Instead of relief at being outside again, staggering up towards the light and finally feeling the setting sun warm their faces, Elissa feels anger.

She's _angry_. And it's an anger without a proper source which makes the scattered streams and threads run amok until she can't tell where anything is headed or why.

She's disappointed because they fought a mediocre battle – and she wonders if she has recruited mediocre Wardens or if she is a mediocre commander or if the failure can be ascribed to _both_ of those things and if that is the case, then what in the Maker's name is she _doing_ here, parading about like a fool. Loghain nearly _died_ and she is furious with him because she would have been responsible for his death and she hates him a little for that, which runs counter to all sense but sense has left her for the moment, anyway. And she's desperately angry about the darkspawn, in a dignified and mature way that involves the desire to curl up on the ground and _scream_ until they go away and leave her alone. During the last fight she had been so exhausted that she all but crawled on the floor – Sigrun had been knocked unconscious and Loghain was not allowed to fight; Dog had soldiered on valiantly as usual, trying to serve as a distraction but been tossed aside by an enormous golem and in the end, Nathaniel had slain the darkspawn general who was, according to his own words, working for The Mother. Whoever _that_ is.

Perhaps, Elissa thinks even more tiredly, she was one of the broodmothers they had crushed in the the darkspawn's own trap.

They rest as soon as they are above ground. Even if nobody complains about it, Elissa can see the grey shadows in their faces, the shivering, shaking aftermath as the constant battle is leaving their bodies. She feels it in herself as well, that way of breathing that resembles _climbing_ , grasping at fresh air and holding on for dear life. Allowing herself a moment's weakness, Elissa leans forward to catch her breath, rests her hands on her thighs and closes her eyes. Everything in her aches. Especially her shoulder – the same shoulder as last time, mere weeks ago – and a spot in her lower back that feels like hard stone and itches at the same time. Some interesting poison as usual, she assumes.

"We killed everything in there. _Everything_." Sigrun, clear-headed and bright beside her, as though she can read Elissa's mind and sense her need for optimism. "I wouldn't want to be _your_ enemy."

"Don't be then," Elissa blurts, noticing a little frown on the other woman's face before she adds: "I mean, come with me. Join us."

" _Huh_." Sigrun is considering, her face scrunched up in a half-grimace before she shrugs. "I suppose that would work. I mean, I don't know if you can belong to both Legion of the Dead and the Grey Wardens, but... why not?"

"You are dead anyway," Elissa says, not realising until after she's said it how it comes out. Perhaps she should stay quiet for the remains of today.

But Sigrun laughs and it's a comforting thing, like feeling fresh air again after the Deep Roads or the sunlight after a long winter. And there's a deal, simple as that.

They keep moving in the growing darkness, Elissa leaning heavily on Anders who mutters something about staying away from cheese and pastries. Nathaniel and Loghain walk behind them and whenever she turns her head to check on them, it appears Loghain is refusing to be aided despite a stiff grimace of pain on his face.

"Isn't there a village right across this field?" Elissa asks Nathaniel.

"Yes," he confirms. "It even has an inn, if my memory serves me."

It isn't a big village, no maze of alleys and paths, just the houses on the side of the road and a square. Like Nathaniel said, there is an inn located to one side of the modest sprawl of buildings and Elissa is ready to fall to her knees and thank the Maker as they find the door open and the innkeeper ready to serve them. Once they have thrown their sparse belongings into the rooms upstairs, they wash up to the best of their abilities and head down for a hot meal. As she sits down opposite Sigrun and beside Loghain at a small table, Elissa feels how starved she is, her stomach almost screaming at the scent of food approaching.

"On the house, my lady," the innkeeper says, putting down plates loaded with roasted chicken and dried meat, onion broth and large loafs of bread on their tables.

For a while, nobody says anything, too busy devouring the meal and letting the ale quench both thirst and that awful feeling as the rush of battle and self-discipline wears off. Elissa drags a slice of bread through the remains on the bottom of her bowl of broth, glancing sideways at Loghain. He eats properly, at least, even if he still looks very pale. When she reaches for her mug of ale, she notices Sigrun is watching her and Loghain both, her eyes eventually landing on him.

"So, you're her father?" she asks, picking up a piece of chicken with her fingers.

Elissa chokes on her ale and tries to mask it by coughing. The noise makes Anders and Nathaniel come to a halt in their chat with the barmaid – a chat that appears to be dwindling into a competition in the art of sweet talking a woman, a competition that Nathaniel unexpectedly is leading, at that – and frown at her.

"I'm not," Loghain replies, levelly. There is nothing but unaffected calm in his tone; Elissa wonders if there is a part of him that feels a little wounded, because _she_ is - on his behalf.

"Oh." Sigrun looks a bit confused. "I thought... You seem _close_."

"He's my general," Elissa says helpfully when she's recomposed herself; she doesn't want Sigrun to feel awkward and she most _definitely_ doesn't want to dig any deeper into what Loghain is and isn't. "We've rebuilt the Order together. The mage is new, he was on the run from the templars when I recruited him. Nathaniel is also new, and he's a Howe; they used to rule over Amaranthine before the Blight."

"And now they don't?" Sigrun takes a large swig of her ale.

"Now _I_ rule over Amaranthine."

"By the ancestors," she shakes her head, grinning. "I used to think the Legion had a strange collection of desperate souls, but you're something else."

Even Loghain's mouth curls into a half-smile at that, Elissa notices, as she dares throwing a glance in his direction again. At the sight of it – his rare, still somewhat incredible smile – she almost forgets how angry she still is.

.

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.

.

"Sigrun will make a fine Warden," Loghain says later that night in the privacy of his bedchamber. He feels the need to say _something_ because Elissa has been uncharacteristically quiet since she stepped inside and let the door snap shut behind her in that imperious manner that never fails to irritate him.

"Yes." She stands still in front of him, holding a vial and a bundle in her hands.

"They are all-"

"Did you doubt me today?"

He waits for a while with his answer, urgently aware of the significance of her question. Her face is hard, painfully young and _worn_ at the same time and he knows she is really asking several things, as she often does; a brief frustration at that behaviour sinks into him.

"You are not a feeble-minded idiot," he says eventually and the answer is clumsy, overly surly even for him. He doesn't expect it to go over well and regrets it the moment it slips over his lips.

"No," Elissa agrees, unwrapping the small bundle that appears to contain a few supplies. "I'm your commander."

She speaks the words differently, gives them a new rhythm that is both icy and a bit heated, as though she's hiding anger underneath the composure.

"I am aware," he replies, dryly.

"I will send you to your death if necessary. Never doubt _that_. Take off your shirt." She nods grimly towards his chest and holds up a vial as though wanting to make sure he understands her intentions.

"There is no need-"

"There is."

Despite the growing irritation at being ordered about in his own room, Loghain does as she says; he has to admit he's still wounded under the effects of the healing spell and any release from the pain is welcome. He slumps down on a chair, feeling ancient. Too tired to tend to his own wounds, almost too tired to care if they fester and lead to his death because his head is leaden and his chest aches. He glares at Elissa. She has no business coddling him like this – he is not a Maker-forsaken child and regardless of what she preposterously claims he is _not_ in need of her aid – but all anger seems to have left him with the last potion he took, leaving only mild reproach in its wake.

"Elissa," he begins as she's rubbing a bandage soaked in ointments over his side where he took a near-fatal blow. She, on the other hand, _is_ angry. Her touch is anything but gentle; she's handling his skin like she thinks he is made of stone and he begins to wish he _were_ when he feels a fingernail press deep into the edges of one of his injuries. Elissa closes the distance between them even further, her body framing his. He looks at her hands as she's working, the rough, calloused fingers cool against his body. The mage had said he would likely run a fever until the worst injuries had mended themselves overnight. It might be the blur of potions, ale and pain, but he doesn't quite understand her tonight. There is something _else_ in her words, slipping out of his reach.

"Loghain," she says, sharply, mirroring his own unfinished sentence.

She gives him a challenging look, a little flinch tugging at her features as she kneels beside him, fastening a clean bandage around his waist and Loghain is momentarily distracted by the pressure of fingertips right above his waistline.

And with that she looks up at him, clearly expecting an answer of some kind. He wonders if she has asked him something that he didn't hear or spoken of anything that merits attention. Rubbing his face slightly, he finds himself at a loss for what to say. Or do, for that matter. Instead he catches hold of her hand as she reaches for a bandage on the floor beside her and pulls her up, a little too forcefully for his mangled body, before he leans down to kiss her.

Judging by the muffled sound of agreement, it wasn't an entirely stupid action, he concludes with one of his hands still wrapped around hers, the other buried in her hair.

Loghain is only vaguely aware of reality at the moment, balancing on its every edge and boundary and he cannot say for how long they kiss or how he ends up in bed. One moment, it seems, he is sitting in a chair with Elissa in his arms and the next his hands are flat against the sheet as he's struggling to find a position that doesn't hurt, careful not to put any pressure to his wounded side. When he feels cool hands slide out from underneath his body he realises Elissa is helping him.

"There," she says, still that rough shape of her voice that makes it sound strangely impersonal despite the intimacy of what they are doing. "I will leave two vials of the healing draught Anders gave to me."

"Very well."

 _Stay_ , he thinks, followed by a pathetically proud _leave me alone_. He is uncertain which one of these prospects burns with the greatest need in him, burns beyond reason and sensibility because he has lost his grasp of those things long ago. This is bloody insanity and yet he assembles his excuses for it, allowing them to fortify his words, spread out into his hands as he reaches for her once more.

She sits on edge of the bed, unfolding a clean towel and drenching it in the same strongly smelling liquid she used before. Her face – what he can see of it – is closed in concentration and restraint as she begins to clean the injury on the back of her shoulder.

Loghain takes the towel from her and continues. It has never been a talent of his, tending to other people's injuries. He doesn't like the forced closeness of it, doesn't care for the mess and fuss of nursing and – even worse – the accompanying tears. You cannot _talk_ people out of crying, he has found. But Elissa is absolutely quiet as he upsets the fragile surface of flesh that is about to heal, sits perfectly still even when the wound begins to bleed again in protest against the strong ointment and Loghain quickly has to wrap it up in bandages. She merely raises her arms to ease the work and he ties the ends of the bands, sinking back with a grimace.

"Thank you," she says, quietly.

She looks like she is about to get to her feet; when she doesn't, he hesitates for a second, then he strokes her arm, lets a hand run over the small of her back and up along her side, fingers tracing the scars there. Even now, even half-way across the Fade and numbed with pain to a point where he knows he won't be able to do anything about it, he feels hot stirring _want_ at the sight of her. There is something buried in this moment, he thinks as his thumb flickers over a little bump of scar tissue right above her elbow, something about learning the secrets of her body, the history of her scars.

He hasn't seen it since it was fresh and deadly, the scar from the Archdemon that is still a soft shade of red along her side, reaching around her waist and chest; he can almost feel the stench of battle again as his palm brushes over it. When it does, Elissa lets out a little sigh and turns her head, her eyes wide and bright.

" _Loghain_ ," she says again, her voice softer now, a gentle mutter under her breath.

Then she suddenly slips down beside him, her grace and pliancy even in this condition reminding him of her age and of his own – that little stitch at the back of his head, the memory of Sigrun's comment – and he has to forcibly push it away. Elissa helps immensely by running a finger over the lines of his face, skittering along his neck and jaw, up and down and across the planes of his back, which makes him shiver slightly. She slides up as close to him as the injuries allow, one hand raking through the hair on his chest and stomach, in an oddly chaste way. He closes his eyes, briefly, cursing the injuries when he remembers the night at Vigil's Keep and the hurried, hasty encounter that they had left like shamed sodding maids sneaking back to their rooms. He will do it properly some day, he swears to himself. They will do it well and properly with the doors locked. It's about the only thing he can offer her as far as promises go and it gets stuck in his throat, the vain absurdity of it grating against his tongue. Elissa gives him a searching glance.

For a long while they remain quiet and motionless just like that, without doing anything but resting and allowing time to pass around them, between them. Loghain is about to suggest that she should leave, when she instead shifts position carefully so she's resting with her back against him.

"Uncomfortable?" she asks; when she speaks, he feels her voice in his chest.

Loghain's side is still straining, making him reluctant to move and even breathe; he feels half-dead and _parched_ , but he shakes his head.

"No."

"Good," she says, drowsily. Then she raises his hand to her mouth and kisses it and he is left with the impression that he is being forgiven for something, although he can't figure out for what.

His mouth rests over the pulse of her neck, her lips grazing his knuckles and fingers, one by one; his arms that circle her as she's settling in his embrace. This is much more intimate than anything else; Loghain is fairly certain he has never _been_ this intimate with anyone, not in a great many years, not in this blatantly obvious way. If that is a pathetic notion for a man his age who has been married at that, then so be it, he decides. He wraps his arms tighter around Elissa, experimentally.

She makes a content noise.

Before he falls asleep he thinks that he must make sure she isn't still here in the morning, thinks despite the undeniable comfort that he will berate her for this, that he will berate himself, that she is being _foolish_ and then sleep claims him abruptly, interrupting his scattered thoughts.

When he wakes up, sore and aching in a room that is drowning in mild and grey morning light, he is alone.

* * *


	31. Don't turn around

They part ways at the Hafter River when they return to it, a few days earlier than Elissa had anticipated when she planned the journey. Of course, she thinks glumly as she reorganises the scant packing to suit the new course of action, she had not planned on Loghain nearly dying in Kal'Hirol either.

He is going back to the Vigil now, still recovering from the injuries but considerably better off than last night when he had been all but unconscious, balancing on the edges of reality; she half-suspects he is angry with her for having witnessed that, or with himself for letting her. Even so, there's a little flush of warmth and unsettled, unfinished thoughts at that memory. One day when she feels particularly brave she might finish them, these swirling floods of fragments and words waiting to be strung together.

"Will you be alright?" she asks him when they're out of earshot, walking slowly towards some sort of invisible boundary where she will leave him and return to the others.

With the urgent impression of being thrown into something rather enormous, only underlined by the recent discovery of the conflicting tribes of darkspawn, Elissa has decided they can't afford to waste time on unnecessary business at the keep – instead they are heading for Amaranthine to resupply and then immediately picking up on the trace of darkspawn in the Wending Wood.

"I have managed to survive two wars," Loghain says dryly.

"That's no guarantee for anything," Elissa points out, battling the urge to touch him as though that would convince her more than his words that he will be fine, that he is doing well and that the lingering guilt for almost causing his death can rest, finally. She doesn't know what upsets her most – that she had to make the decision or that she nearly lost her head over making it and she wants to tell him, wants his _reassurance._

He catches her gaze. "I suppose not. The Vigil, however, is barely an hour's walk away."

"Fair enough. Keep an eye on Oghren, will you?" She stops, beginning to realise that she can no longer put off their parting any longer. Soon they will see the Vigil loom large in front of them, its features breaking through the thick clouds. "I have a feeling either Warren or Hade will push him onto an outstretched sword if he destroys something in their shop again."

Loghain raises an eyebrow. "I am not going to stop them."

"Fine." Elissa shrugs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I will be back as soon as we've investigated the traces."

They both nod. The others seem small from where they are standing, way off in the distance and occupied – or pretending to be occupied – with minding their own matters, so Elissa briefly lets one of her hands brush over Loghain's arm in a gesture of goodbye. She notices the corners of his mouth twitch slightly at that; before she has turned around to walk away, he holds her gaze a second.

"Be careful," he says.

"I _have_ managed to slay an Archdemon." She tries to mirror the dry coolness of his voice but fails with a quick grin.

Loghain snorts as he's turning on his heel and Elissa watches him leave with a strange gravity weighing her down, an oddly hollow sound among her thoughts.

It's a chilly day, a reminder of the early autumn just like the leaves on the ground and the treetops becoming naked are signs of the ever-moving time around them. It waits for nothing.

"All _I_ want is a pretty girl, a decent meal and the right to shoot lightning at fools," Anders explains to the others as Elissa reaches them. He holds out a plate for her, loaded with cheese and meat.

"You're aiming low," Nathaniel says, picking apart his slice of cheese.

"Right." Anders reaches for another piece of dried meat. "What do _you_ want then? A statue of yourself in the middle of Amaranthine?"

Sigrun chuckles at that, throwing back her head, and Nathaniel goes quiet. Elissa smiles experimentally at him, feeling uncharacteristically interested in keeping this group together, mending their differences and difficulties. Naturally he doesn't return the smile but at least she has made the effort.

"They are talking about their grand plans for the future," Sigrun explains and takes a swig of her water flask.

"Well, I am, at least." Anders smiles at her. "The others won't _share_."

"I wasn't aware I had a future," Sigrun shrugs.

"Fine," Anders says. "You're excused then."

Elissa takes a seat among them, occupying herself with food to avoid the question.

She's spent her entire life being certain of everything but what she wants to _do_ with it, she thinks, stumbling over the insight as though it's the first time it strikes her. Escaping responsibilities in Highever hardly counts as a dream, and neither does her current objective of staying alive long enough to solve the darkspawn issue but those _are_ her desires. To bring about some sort of order to the nation and try to make a lasting impression on the Grey Wardens because even if she joined them kicking and screaming, she doesn't like to leave things badly done. Perhaps that is a sad record of dreams, but she has never been good at dreaming.

I could get used to this, you know, Alistair used to say as they were sharing a moment together after battle or during early mornings in camp when the air was crisp as ice around them and nothing felt impossible. You, me, battles and darkspawn.

Elissa had been careful to never let her own thoughts roam that far because it had been so very easy to picture it, a sort of domesticity in the midst of all the insanity that was her life; a simple and uncomplicated happiness with Alistair who is one of the least complicated people she's ever met. She had seen it with him – it happens sometimes that she still does, that her mind or heart or whatever it is that directs her in such silly ways, lingers among the feelings of peace and quiet only small things can offer. A cup of perfectly made tea with no honey. A gaze; shared, private laughter; a hand in the exact right spot; a way of being involved and included in someone else's thoughts.

Certain things don't change and she wants the same things now, she realises, skimming over the very edges of these thoughts but stepping back as soon as they threaten to unwrap themselves too much. But it's no longer Alistair she wants, if it ever was.

It's no longer uncomplicated and sensible, that mess of twisted desires and hopeful, gasping little words that resemble questions and answers all at once. At times she thinks she ought to hold them together, the things that storm and swarm inside her; other times they merely terrify her.

Shaking her head, Elissa quickly finishes her meal and gets to her feet.

"Come on," she orders, not able to escape the feeling that she's ordering herself more than she orders the others. "We have a lot to do before we can return to the keep."

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.

.

The first thing that awaits Loghain at Vigil's Keep when he reaches it, is a letter. It's delivered by the seneschal himself, which is cause for some surprise until Loghain opens it, watching the message unfold before his eyes.

_Loghain,_

_You are hereby being summoned to resume your service as a Grey Warden in Montsimmard, Orlais. Because of your previous involvements in the diplomatic affairs as well as your history, the Order considers this arrangement necessary and we expect your cooperation. All practical details have been arranged._

_Regards,_

_First Warden Haimund_

In just as few words as that – a couple of straight-forward, impersonal sentences – he reads a whole world full of changes for himself and his life. It seems abrupt to an absurd degree, this carefully aimed blow to the entire Fereldan order; for a second he is thrown back in time, the instant hatred and suspicion so close under his surface that he falls into it without a second thought. This is not meant to benefit them. This is a provocation.

"The Orlesians are expected shortly," the seneschal says and Loghain turns his head, momentarily confused before he remembers the times have changed and he has nothing at his disposal now. "They sent a Warden messenger to announce their arrival," he adds. "You are being escorted to Montsimmard."

Of course he is, he thinks bitterly, the information still not settled in his mind. As it snaps into place, he feels a searing rage seep out of it, a frustrated sensation of being a tool used for someone else's reasons and the indignity of being shipped off to Orlais like a bloody _slave_. It blends with the recent knowledge that something is amiss in the Order and that Wardens are disappearing – he cannot deny the need for further investigations there, has even considered asking Elissa if they are going across the border to see for themselves if what the letters and rumours spoke of is indeed true.

But not like this. Not in this inane fashion.

 _Orlais_. Loghain bites back a scathing comment, reminding himself that nothing of this is the seneschal's fault.

"Very well," he says stiffly and looks around, searching for a direction leading out of this situation. There is, of course, no such thing to be found.

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The Orlesians arrive before Elissa, a small group of them showing up at the Vigil's doorstep as though they have been waiting nearby, lurking in the shadows. They probably have at that, Loghain realises as he's observing the four Wardens who enter the keep and wondering whether it's a compliment or an insult to him that they expect him to put up such a resistance. He opts for the former.

He's accumulating enough anger over this to make him nearly forget everything else, so when Elissa does arrive, dishevelled and tattered like she's been fighting for her life, it takes a few seconds for his mind to sort through the notes this strikes in him.

Walking up to meet the group out in the courtyard, he notices that her face is grey with exhaustion.

"We were captured," she says, tautly.

Loghain frowns. "Captured? By darkspawn?"

"Yes."

"He was different," Sigrun interjects, looking troubled and equally worn out. "The one who captured us. He was making experiments. Sodding darkspawn shouldn't make experiments."

When Loghain lets his gaze travel over the others, he notices a new face among them.

"This is Velanna." Elissa nods towards the newcomer - a scantily clad elven mage who gives Loghain an uninterested nod back. "She's a new recruit."

Both Anders and Sigrun seem unimpressed with this, but neither of them says anything about it and Loghain is hardly going to pretend to be interested in whatever reasons they have for their disapproval. He waits impatiently for the group to scatter.

"I need to speak to you," Loghain says, walking with Elissa as she's leaving the Wardens in Varel's hands.

"Yes?" She begins fidgeting with the fastenings of her armour as they move, turning her head only slightly to look at him.

"I'm being sent to Orlais," he says without preamble, not wanting to delay the information any further.

"You're -" Elissa looks up from her hands that are sprawled over the buckles of her armour, with dried darkspawn blood under the nails and in every crack in her skin. "You're _what_?"

"Montsimmard," Loghain clarifies.

"What?" She asks again, shaking her head now. Her half-unfastened armour makes a clattering noise as she discards the breastplate and carries it in one hand, using it to gesticulate her surprise. Loghain feels, more than ever before, how little he wants to go away. In the middle of all the insolent bloody madness of forcing him to Orlais is the hard little core of _her_ , fortifying his antipathy with an intensity that manages to catch him off-guard. He doesn't want to go; he doesn't want to _leave_ her.

"I suspect that they think I might interfere with the rebuilding here in Ferelden."

"They _said_ that?"

Loghain shakes his head. "No, it was implied."

"But you're _my_ Warden! Why _wouldn't_ you interfere with the business here? And _I_ give you orders." As the emotions that are swelling out of the words fade away with a little gasp in the air around them, Elissa gathers her composure and clears her throat. "Let me talk to the Orlesians, see if I can interfere. They have no right-"

"The order came from the First Warden himself."

"Oh." She lets out a breath, sounding defeated, her shoulders sinking down.

"Perhaps they are right," he attempts, half-heartedly. After two full days of infuriating attempts at discussion with the fools who are here to fetch him, two days of that balance act he is so ill-suited for, trying to express his disgust and disapproval while remaining reasonably civil, Loghain simply has no vitriol left. He feels a quiet sort of anger and frustration that translates into a resignation intertwined with the knowledge that he cannot rage against his own hard-earned fate.

When he yielded at the Landsmeet he had somehow expected this – a future as someone else's puppet, a brutally ironic way of atoning for his crimes – and it had not happened. Instead he found an opportunity to _act_ , to set right some of the thing he had done wrong, to help build something; regardless of his feelings about being sent to Orlais, he has been given so much more than he expected.

And of course, this is precisely the reason he still battles the urge to furiously and futilely refuse being escorted away.

Elissa is very quiet for a long time. They have stopped walking and stand outside the inner gates, several feet away from everyone else and remain silent apart from a few heavy sighs scattered over the moment that stretches out between them.

"This is not making sense," she says eventually, thoughtful now and _calm_ in an icy way that is telling him she is furious. "They are planning something."

"The Order is in disarray, as far as we know," Loghain agrees. It seems only minutes ago since he arrived here and told her about the reports of what allegedly goes on in Orlais, but it has been nearly a fortnight."I doubt the reason for my being sent there is quite as simple as they make pretence of."

"Don't go then."

"Elissa-"

"I mean it." Her voice is closed, hard. "Don't go. I propose that we sort this out in Ferelden and then we both go to Orlais, investigate the situation there."

He can't deny the temptation of that offer, nor the sensibility of it – with the current situation and the droves of darkspawn amassing around Amaranthine and in the rest of the north it seems foolish to regroup their forces in this way. Not that he has ever suspected that Orlesians are capable of strategy and sound warfare. Brutal force has always seemed to suit their purposes much better and been more their forte and it appears the Wardens are not much better.

"I doubt the First Warden's orders are something to be trifled with."

She groans, a low, weary sound rising from the centre of her. "And I would get the blame for it. If you didn't go there. Ferelden and I."

Loghain nods.

"The Orlesians are already here," he adds.

"You're being escorted?" She gives a sound that ordinarily would sound like a laugh. Now it's a harsh, empty noise. "Well. Of _course_ you are."

"Yes."

Their eyes meet as a guard apologetically squeezes herself past them to go inside and Elissa shuffles a bit closer, her exhaustion looking even worse up close. Loghain notices a long scratch running down her throat and a strange bruise around a wound on her wrist. When she notices his glances, she raises the injured wrist.

"The darkspawn who captured us took my blood," she mutters. "And my things, incidentally. Took us a while to find all of it – I think I lost my protective amulet. Andraste's arse, I _loathe_ being taken prisoner."

Loghain reaches for her hand by instinct, wanting to check the wound. As he does, Elissa gives him a look that renders him transparent for a second and as she notices that, she smiles – briefly, gently. For a while, Loghain doesn't trust his voice so he inspects her wrist instead.

"When are you leaving?" Elissa asks as his thumb traces over the edges of the spot where the darkspawn must have tapped into her veins.

"At first light tomorrow." He doesn't look up; there is a hard trace of determination at the back of his mind, running between the things they don't say and will probably never say about this. "I would suggest you speak to the seneschal; he has had plenty of issues with the lords and ladies while you were gone."

"I will." She nods, snapping back to duty and posture.

He looks at her without saying anything else, releasing his hold of her wrist before someone sees them. Elissa stands quite still, too, takes a few steps away; then she turns around, puts out her hand and clutches hold of Loghain's fingers. She grips them hard, frantic, as someone would clutch at something blindly in pain or panic. For a few moments she stands like this, without saying anything, and he doesn't pull away.

When she has left, Loghain exhales, feeling each breath flooding in an out of him as weights in his chest.

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The supper that night is had mostly in silence, in scattered groups spread out in the dining hall. The Orlesians keep their own counsel, occasionally Loghain has noticed them speaking to Varel or Garavel, the captain of the guards, but most of the time they keep to themselves. Tomorrow, of course, _he_ will be their company. At that thought he has to forcibly restrain himself not to down a whole goblet of wine in one large swig.

Loghain sits between Elissa and Sigrun who are both eating very little. Elissa, glum and composed, doesn't even drink which she usually does whenever she's too upset or too nervous to get any food down. Like Maric, Loghain has thought on several occasions, and like most of the generals and commanders he has ever met who couldn't find enough solace in religion.

"So, this might be my last meal." The dwarf pokes at the meat on her plate without the spark of her usual enthusiasm, before looking up and cracking a grin again. "At least it isn't sodding _nug_."

He has almost forgotten about the Joining, he realises, and for a second Elissa's gaze is blank too, nothing in it mirroring what Sigrun is talking about.

"You will have a hot meal afterwards," she says eventually, as she seems to return slowly to the present. "If you aren't too sick."

"Right." Sigrun drives her fork through the last piece of boar in front of her.

"I will come for you and Velanna once the ceremony is prepared." Elissa wipes her mouth and shoves the half-full plate away. "And don't you _dare_ die."

She's gone before Sigrun has replied, so the dwarf turns to Loghain instead, a fascinated expression on her face.

"I think she will drag me back from the Fade if I perish," she says thoughtfully, reaching for her mug of ale. "So I suppose I shouldn't."

"No," Loghain agrees, thinking this odd recruit is exactly what Elissa needs in her ranks and possibly also as a friend because Maker knows she hasn't got a lot of those. He thinks it, he realises, like a man who prepares for his own demise and wants to set everything right. Tie up the loose ends. That insight twists something inside him even further, darkens it. "You shouldn't."

Sigrun smiles brightly as he, too, leaves the table.

The rest of the evening moves quickly, as though time is rebelling against them. Loghain watches the Joining with the rest of the Wardens, avoids the Orlesians and as Elissa goes to tend to the newly joined women – who both made it, even if the mage had struggled immensely with the taint and nearly lost the battle – Loghain goes to finish his packing.

It's a peculiar thing, packing for a journey that will almost certainly end in his death. He has no illusions of being capable of the impossible and whatever the turmoil in Orlais, he is scarcely going to make a difference on his own. What they can hope for – what he _does_ hope for when he hopes at all – is an insight into the situation there. It doesn't mitigate the feeling that he is paying a high price for very little, or the dread of being taken away from what it truly important here and now in Ferelden.

With a heavy sigh, he closes the last of his bags and places it on the floor with the rest of them – a small collection of saddlebags containing bare necessities.

You are leaving. Dog sits down in the doorway, turning himself into a massive heap of imposing wardog.

Loghain confirms this with a nod.

She doesn't want you to leave, Dog says disapprovingly. She is a warrior and you are her kin. She wants to protect you.

"I... am aware of that," Loghain mutters back, crouching down so he is able to rub the mabari's ears. The dog, however, isn't easily swayed. He pulls away, decidedly displeased with the fact that Loghain is leaving. Reasoning with mabari isn't a simple feat regardless of the subject and reasoning with a mabari imprinted on _Elissa_ is naturally even more difficult, Loghain thinks, smiling slightly because the fact that he still does – not to mention that he is here in this scenario - is so _absurd_. And there's a stab at something half-ignored inside him at the realisation that his departure upsets her, that he is important to her, that in spite of all sense and reason, she is considering him kin. The flurry of emotions that thought drives up from the corners of his – rather dusty – heart makes him sneer at himself.

"You be a good dog now and take care of her," he says, digging his fingers into Dog's thick fur.

Dog looks insulted, as though Loghain suggests he doesn't _normally_. It is nothing compared to how Elissa would look if _she_ had heard that redundant appeal. With a sigh, Loghain rises to his full height.

.

.

.

.

Elissa is about to go to Loghain's bedchamber – finding that she cares very little about propriety tonight - when he suddenly stands outside her still open door. His frame looks odd there, she thinks dimly, he is not usually seeking her out. In fact, this might very well be the first time. And the sight of him drags out the unfinished thoughts lurking in her, causing them to land in her chest with a horribly heavy sound.

She has spent so long declining all desires and dreams that it seems almost cruel of him to be here, reminding her.

"They're both recovering," she blurts, as though a sudden concern for the new Wardens is why is stands there.

"I know." He inclines his head slightly. There is a sombre streak in his eyes tonight, darkening his features. She swallows a hard knot of things she wishes to blame someone for – things beyond his control, beyond her control, things that drive them apart. While they know very little of the current situation of the Grey Wardens in Orlais, Elissa saw enough there to suspect the worst and her imagination bursts with it, this dance of images and fears.

"I was... you are done preparing?"

"Yes, I am," Loghain says but remains in the doorway which irritates her although she can't say why; she steps out of the way so he can walk inside and when he does, after a second of hesitation, she all but slams the door shut behind him.

When he's in the middle of the room he stops, searches for her gaze, and Elissa looks at him with a sense of standing on the verge of something. If he leaves now without saying anything else, she thinks as her hand - seemingly without her cooperation or approval - reaches for his arm, if he leaves now all of it will cease to evolve here and now and the shape of it, of the two of them, will be _this_. Everything beyond it is unknown, its very borders uncertain and unexplored and she drags a deep breath as their eyes meet.

There's a ghost of him buried deep within her memories: the man from the myths and the statue of Fereldan rebellion and honour, its face hard as stone and immovable as the very ground beneath it. And then there's another man, very much alive, only a pair of strides away and not nearly as righteous as the legends claim - not as dangerously handsome either, Elissa thinks with a little smile, remembering some of the more laughable stories.

He is summer and restoration and campfires tinting his hands with scents of fire and earth; maps smelling of ink and old parchments and his movements, full of blade-steel and mastered strength. He is a low, rare laughter that ripples through her, that speaks to her of mercy and punishment and preconceived notions; he is unforgiving and unforgivable and absolutely _impossible_ and yet somehow a spot of something as rare as hope in her.

"I need you here, Loghain."

"No," he says softly. "You don't. You are more than capable of handling this on your own. I hate going to Orlais, but at least I can leave Ferelden knowing it will be safe in your hands."

"That's not what I _meant_."

Loghain gives her a glance as though he is suggesting that perhaps this is what she ought to mean; Elissa averts her eyes. Her fingers are aimlessly tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, softly touching the warm skin beneath it, brushing over one of the spots where she imagines she can feel his blood rush through his body and into her. The pulse in her picks up pace at the nearness of his, the pull and tug of it that she had once shown him back when she was urging him not to leave her, but for different reasons, the dark thread wrapped around them both.

"Elissa," Loghain says then, says it strangely, in a tone she can't remember having heard before, a sound ghosting around a tenderness she had never thought possible, not from _him_.

She looks up at him, feeling a bit lost because she isn't _good_ at this, words don't magically form themselves in her mouth as she wants them to. Everything she wishes to say stay underneath her skin, inside her mouth, at the back of her tongue and mocks her and her silent voice.

"I care so much about you," she hears herself say, at last, realising she sounds near anger as though she is confessing it against her own will. "I know that's not... it's not... well-"

"Sensible?" he offers, wryly.

"Yes."

"Maker knows that it's not sensible." He raises a hand to her shoulder; she steps closer, relaxing a little under his touch. "But I care about you, too."

"You do?" She has to smile when she hears the surprise in her own voice – genuine surprise, at that.

Loghain, amazingly, smiles back. His smile is very brief and thin, but it's a smile and it's _hers_.

Closing her eyes for a second, Elissa feels a swirl of relief and gratefulness, an odd combination of things rattling inside her. If they were different people prone to pretence, they could soothe each other with false hope and ludicrous speculation now; they could let the impossibility of a future overshadow everything they would have to ignore to have one _together,_ shut out the truth and the world and pretend this is all they need. But she has never been comforted by illusions and Loghain offers none. He offers _this_ and somewhere in the fragments of her mind, she suspects he does so only because nothing will hold them to it, because tonight is outside of time.

"Your friendship has been the most important of my life," Elissa says; she hadn't thought she was going to say it but now that the words are spoken, they become true. Even worse – they _grow_ once they leave her mouth, spinning themselves into enormous glaring truths hanging over their heads and she almost can't bear to look at Loghain again. When she does, she notices that he looks at her, straight into her eyes.

"You will always have it," he replies and there is no room left for anything but honesty. She feels his fingers on her jaw as he leans in to kiss her and she cups her own hands around his head, her fingers in his hair as he deepens the kiss with a force that sends a faint gasp through her.

It's such a relief to be in his arms again, she feels almost light-hearted despite it all as Loghain's arms circle her and she leans her forehead against his chest. He smells of departure, she thinks illogically. There's an empty, fleeting scent to his skin, as if he's already half-way gone. Her arms around him hard and fierce, the length of his body pressed against her own so tight she thinks they may dissolve all remaining lines between them, crush them under the weight of this but he is going to disappear at first light and the shapes of her nails on his skin are futile against that.

They kiss for a long time, kisses that feel like fire, draw and take hold like fire, and Elissa moves her hands over Loghain's arms and shoulders thinking she must remember to lock the bloody door as his lips graze the soft skin on her throat. Thinking too that she must remember _him_ , burn him into her hands.

Loghain has the warmest hands she has ever felt, she thinks later, as his palms spread over her back like flames, sending flushes of that thick, sweet _need_ rising in her at the mere closeness of him; he has a voice that resounds deep and dark and a way of kissing her that makes her push him towards the bed, so unspeakably thankful that they are alone and that regardless of how little time they have, the time that they do have is _theirs_.

She raises her arms to wriggle out of her tunic, arching back into his touch again to reach for the seams of his shirt. Loghain helps her, tossing it to the floor as he kisses her again, his hands travelling over her back to unfasten the breastband and she shivers when the hairs on his chest tickle her quickly uncovered breasts. Then there's a quickening, maddening rush of anticipation along her spine as Loghain gives a low groan at the sight of her, a growing ache in the pit of her belly, spreading lower and deeper as he presses her up against him and she finally drags him down over her on the bed.

Fitting themselves against each other in the new position, kissing every bit of skin and muscle, fingers digging deeper and pulling closer, Elissa grunts when she can feel Loghain's hand between her legs, stroking her thigh through the frustratingly tight fabric of her trousers. He is propped up on one arm, his face so close to her own that she can feel his eyelashes on her skin when he kisses her and his breath is trickling down her neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake and then, before she knows it, she has her fingers ensnared in his thick hair while his mouth explores other parts of her body.

Oh, _Maker_ , she thinks – or says, she is uncertain of which – and tips her head back, tilting her entire body to make it simpler for him to remove her last pieces of clothing.

She feels pleasantly, _enticingly_ exposed under him, wriggling and arching and dragging him closer into her embrace with arms and legs; Loghain responds to that by placing his hands on her hips and his mouth over hers and then he's flipping them around, dragging her down on top of him in one swift motion mirroring other scenes that tingle at the back of her mind, burning hot under her fingertips.

Elissa smiles – at his predictability and at her own - raking a hand through her dishevelled hair as she's using the other for support, sinking down over him for a kiss, her fingers sprawled over his chest that rises and falls with a quickening pace, even more so as she moves further down and it becomes his turn to give in to jerking, involuntary thrusts. She maps him out with hands and tongue, branding and marking his shape in her bed, his lines in her memory. Whatever happens, she will have the image of him under her touch, of him so deep inside that his breath seems to be her breath and his scents bleed into her own, forever blurring everything before and after. Whatever happens, she will have this like a path of light in her mind, a thread of impressions and moments leading back to them, to this.

Everything that is _him_ she knows now. His sounds and touches, the press and weight of his fingertips over every inch of her body; his outlines and angles and the planes of his broad back, his shoulders and stomach and long legs spread under her. The look in his eyes as she moves, as his hands push him deeper inside and her body pins him down; the open, almost grateful expression on his face as Elissa cries out, falling forward against his fingers and thrusting harder, faster. The helpless, rumbling groan right before he goes still inside her and the taste of his skin, the shape and curves of his arms in her cupped hands as he's panting beneath her and she's stretched out on top of him, breathless and _done_ , completely sated and momentarily forgetful about everything else.

She slumps down beside him on the damp sheets, catching her breath; Loghain glances at her, his face looking as flushed as hers feels and his eyes still wide and somewhat bleary.

They lie there side by side, their breathing slowly decreasing into a soft rhythm and Elissa reaches for his hand without looking, presses it in her own as the moment tightens around them both, enclosing them. A faint hope wriggles out of her with the soft breaths, too fragile for almost-dawns and departures and Orlais; for a horrifying second she thinks she might cry. It's no use, she tells herself, dragging air into her lungs and breathes out, slow and measured, thinking it hurts but that it _can't_ because she can't let it and this is what they have, what they were given.

This is how it _is_.

She steadies herself against thoughts of strategy and endeavours, against hard, cold facts. She keeps the crashing feeling at bay by counting the scars on Loghain's chest, tracing them along his sides and up over his shoulders. When that no longer helps, she rests her head on his arm and if he feels the held-back quivers of her body or the tears she eventually fails to bite back, he makes no mention of it.


	32. Epilogue: Daggers and all

It seems the autumn crashes in over them after Loghain leaves.

When Elissa and the others return from the Blackmarsh the season is irrevocably there, around them, as though the time they spent trapped in the Fade had in fact dragged out more than it could possibly have done. There's a chill in the air, a crisp tone of dusk early in the afternoons and the nights, Elissa thinks huddled under double blankets and strengthened by whiskey, are endless. She dreams of broodmothers and darkspawn every night; sometimes it feels as though she is being pushed over the edges, falling into her own fantasies and lured into the shadows and she wakes up sweaty and terrified and sits in the windowsill until it dawns.

It's not like they suffer from a lack of things to do during the days, so she could use the rest but sleep insists on eluding her.

In the weeks that pass after Loghain's departure, Elissa speak to the lords and ladies, rallies the soldiers and pretends to have more answers that she does about how they will withstand the forces of darkspawn that are eating through their flimsy defences. She shakes hands and performs the badly rehearsed play – the Arlessa of Amaranthine and her Arling – as the duties escalate and the dissatisfaction becomes a tangible, forcible presence around them.

The freeholders suffer, the commoners starve and the small numbers of soldiers crumble under the weight of their tasks; Elissa has never felt more alone or more useless in her entire life.

That's when the messenger arrives.

At first, Elissa thinks it's a letter from Loghain – her expectation a stab of impatience in her chest – and crosses the courtyard to meet the incoming rider. But as the woman dismounts her horse, all but falling off it in an ungraceful move and dragging herself upright again with what appears to be sheer willpower, that prospect leaves rather quickly. No ordinary messenger would have travelled in this frenzy.

"Are you the Warden-Commander?" she asks, the Orlesian accent thick around her words.

Elissa nods. "I am. Who are you?"

"Name's Leonie, sister." She pauses, briefly, to catch her breath. "I'm with the Wardens in Verchiel. Or I _was_. There's not much left of them."

A chill runs down Elissa's spine. "Go on," she urges, keeping her voice loud and heavy so it won't break.

"There's... a war, I suppose you'd call it. The darkspawn, they're breeding armies, they're... changing. They're going to invade us. And they've... from what I have seen, they have got help." Leonie exhales loudly, gazing up at Elissa who feels frozen, like her limbs have grown into the ground and she can't move an inch. "When they attacked us, they had Wardens among them. Mages."

"But the Order have commanded Wardens to come to Orlais," Elissa says, half-protesting as though that would change what this woman is telling her. "The First Warden-"

"The First Warden is dead," Leonie cuts her off, shaking her head. "Rumour has it he's been dead since the Blight. They... just before I escaped, I heard the news that they had sent his head to our headquarters in Montsimmard."

" _They_?" Elissa rubs a hand across her forehead, trying to force her thoughts into calm, coherent streams inside her head and suppress the urge to shout at this stranger.

"I don't know who they are," Leonie says, her voice sounding desperate now. "I don't know _anything_. Everyone I was in charge of was killed. I... ran in the opposite direction and now I'm here. That's all I know. Well, apart from the fact that something is very wrong and that I think Orlais is going to fall."

"But..." Elissa lets her words vanish in the cool air outside the keep, as she meets the other Warden's gaze. "When did all of this happen?"

"Now. Very recently. I... it must have been brewing for a long time, underground."

Elissa nods.

"If the darkspawn truly have evolved," Leonie presses on; Elissa wonders if she has spent her journey refining her arguments for this very conversation because she is a _force_. "If they have strategy and armies underground, if they can plan their attacks... forge bonds and make allies. They are capable of everything."

"Yes."

There's a moment of silence as they look at each other, Leonie's strength faltering a little and Elissa reaches out an arm for her to steady herself on.

"What do you propose?" Elissa asks eventually.

The other woman gives her a long look. "At the moment, nothing. I don't know what we _can_ do. I am, however, asking for your assistance."

Elissa looks out over her fortress – that still doesn't feel like _hers_ in any sense of the word – and the bustling courtyard, full of servants and soldiers and Wardens. She thinks about Loghain, the image of him pushing hard against her composure and forced calm, and with a wince she turns to Leonie again. This is a complete stranger, Elissa reminds herself. And even so, she may prove an ally yet. She may even prove to be a necessary ally.

"I have an arling to defend," Elissa says, feeling as old as the fortress behind her. "I could use an extra pair of hands. Once that is done, I'll lend you mine."

For the first time since she arrived, the ashen surface on Leonie's face lightens up – very briefly – as she nods.

"You have a deal, Commander."

* * *

 


End file.
